Where Monsters Come to Rest
by jellyfishheart
Summary: Discontinued.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: Quinn goes missing and everyone around her is left to deal with the aftermath. **

**Pairings: Faberry, Pezberry friendship.**

**Warning: This could get pretty dark and will no doubt be full of angst. Read at your own discretion. **

**(/)**

"Quinn Fabray was reported missing last night."

You can see Mr. Schuester leaning against the piano at the front of the music room, his hair unbrushed and the skin of his eyes dark with lack of sleep. His lips move to continue that conversation, but all you hear is your chest beating a little too fast and Santana's foot tapping against the back of your chair. She can't hear him either, you realize as she squeezes the fabric of her cheerleading uniform in her fists. Her eyes are on him but she's as far gone as you.

Quinn Fabray is missing.

With a sickening drop of your stomach, you remember seeing her last night as you drove home from ballet rehearsal. It was just a flash of blonde hair that didn't register until later, but she was on the bridge above the only river that moved quick enough to require safety signs. Quinn was pressed into the railing, leaning over the edge, and you clamp a hand over your mouth as all the information settles in your head. At the time, you'd assumed she was on one of her walks, trying to shake off whatever realities were clinging to her. But now…

She's missing. They can't find her.

"Dwarf… Rachel."

You turn in your chair to see Santana's concerned eyes fixed on yours, and she motions to the now-empty room around you. Everyone else left while you were drowning under Mr. Schuester's choked words.

"Can I walk you to class or something?" Santana squirms in her seat and makes a face, trying to show you how uncomfortable she is. "You don't look like you can manage on your own right now."

She's never been nice to you before, but this seems like a peace offering. "I wasn't planning on going back to class, but thank-you nonetheless."

She's quick to stand as you're on your feet, and a hand grabs your forearm. "Please. Let me take you to wherever you're going."

This isn't for your sake but hers. She can't actually say it, but she needs to be with someone right now. She needs you to keep her safe. So you nod and extend a hand and lead her out to the parking lot, where you admit you don't know where you're going.

"My house is only a fifteen-minute walk," she offers, and in the back of your head it seems like an invitation to join the devil in hell, but people can change. Or more specifically, situations like these can change people.

Quinn's missing and you join Santana, the cheerleader who's made your life an actual hell, in a silent walk to her house.

(~/~/~)

There's no one home at the Lopez residence. You fill the quiet with your careful footsteps and note the bare beige walls where in your house there's a mural of photos. The lights flicker on with a sigh, or maybe you imagine it, but the house seems just as lonely as the Latina who stands in the front hall with her arms wrapped around her torso. She gives you a nod and turns to the kitchen, which up until now you never realized is the heart of every house.

"My parents work a lot," is her response to the general emptiness of the fridge, safe a few takeout containers.

You find the kettle and in the cupboard above the stove, there's a box of earl grey tea. You're not sure if she's a tea-drinker, but you make two cups anyway and she looks grateful for the steaming mug in front of her. Someone once told you a cup of tea will fix even the biggest problems. You're not sure of the accuracy of that statement, but Santana gets the Number 1 Dad mug and you find yourself with Daddy's Little Girl.

"Will they find her?" she asks in a voice meant for a China doll, too soft and delicate for this cheerleader. She's deflated since hearing the news. She's smaller.

You focus on the tiny stick-girl adorning the side of your mug. "She's only been missing for a day, so the odds are much greater and definitely in her favour."

It doesn't calm either of you, but it fills the silence for a few minutes before fizzling out and leaving you with her searching eyes.

"Did she say anything to you?" Santana's speaking to you, but her voice drops to her tea, and it seems like a plea to whatever gods reside in the depths of her beverage.

_Did_ she say anything to you? Thinking back, every conversation from the first chance meeting in the high school washroom to the last rushed words she whispered to you three nights before seems to have a hidden meaning. "I've got to go" now sounds like a suicide note.

The floor falls away from under you and the only thing keeping you in that chair is the anchor that's rooted itself in your stomach. "Santana… You don't think she… You're her best friend. Was she depressed?"

"I don't know, Berry. _You_ were screwing her." It's not exactly condescending, but the way she says it makes you feel guilty.

"Don't say were," you say hastily. "And it's not exactly something that comes up during pillow talk."

The quiet creeps up again, this time shrouding you in a hushed chill that not even your tea can help. It's gone cold, anyway. While you watched Santana's hands fold around her mug, the heat left your cup. Maybe you should stick it in the microwave, but you don't even want to finish this damn cup of tea. It's not helping.

Quinn's still missing.

"She would have told me, right? If she was depressed? If she was thinking about… anything?" You don't want to ask but you need to, just to hear someone else say it.

Santana surprises you by cupping her hands over yours and giving you a squeeze. "Let's think logistically, Berry. Did she leave you a note? Of any kind."

"I haven't found anything," you reply. "Do I want to find anything?"

"A note could have two outcomes. One, she writes it to say she's running away. Two, she writes it to really say goodbye. She loves you, so she'd most likely leave it in your room or somewhere you'd find it first."

Colour returns to her face as she has something solid to hold in her mind. It's better than trying to close her fists around thin air like you've both been doing since glee club at lunch. You like Santana better when she has light behind her eyes. Even if she's tossing a slushie in your face, at least she's not a hollow shell.

Again, you don't want to ask, but you have to. "And what if there's no note?"

"Maybe she's realized she doesn't have to stop walking at the _Welcome to Lima: Population Losers_ sign," Santana says with a shrug and the beginning of a smirk.

It hurts to think Quinn could just leave this town without you, but it's a hell of a lot easier to stomach than the possibility of her journey ending in that cold river.

You can't bring yourself to say the s-word, the one meaning she jumped, and neither can Santana. But that afternoon and the following night it's all that will echo throughout your head. That's when you'll wonder if hollow is really such a bad thing. At least pure empty shell means no nightmares of finding Quinn's battered corpse. You'd rather think of nothing than this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Thanks for the reviews! I love writing angst despite how heartbreaking it can be. Also, I really love friendships between Santana and Rachel. I feel the two of them go well together and I wish they had more scenes together on Glee. They have great comedic chemistry. **

**I may not update as frequently as I'd like because we went over our internet limit or something and I'm not supposed to upload or download anything lest it cost us too much, but I'm sneaking this. It'll be returning to normal in the beginning of February. **

**(/)**

Tuesday morning, you shuffle into math class in one of your dad's old sweatshirts and a pair of Quinn's jeans she'd left at your place. You're congested with fear; it's worse than that bout of tonsillitis. You almost don't make it to your seat but a kind hand leads you and you're sat between Brittany and a pale Santana. Brittany strokes your arm – the first proper contact you've had with her since she hugged you in ninth grade and was smacked away by a seething and scowling Santana. The kind gesture doesn't calm you like it should, instead causing a lump of longing to form in your throat.

Quinn should be comforting you, not these cheerleaders you barely know.

Math class passes in a blur. Santana and Brittany each take one of your elbows, guiding you through the overly-hectic halls to Spanish class, where the Latina leaves you for her gym class. Mr. Schuester nods to you and Brittany as you enter the room, his tired eyes asking if you're okay. You're still functioning, barely, but you wouldn't call it okay.

Instead of a copy of the quiz, he hands you a note telling you he's available to talk should you need someone. You wonder if he knows you and Quinn are in a relationship; she wanted to wait until after spring break to tell people. Santana knew from the start though, which meant Brittany knew, and the slushies have stopped. You wish you'd pushed a little harder to be open about it. Maybe Quinn would still be here.

Brittany's cell buzzes and after replying with a quick text, she turns to you. Her blue eyes don't sparkle but she fakes a smile anyway.

"Santana and I are leaving after glee at lunch. You're coming with us, Rachel."

You nod, afraid and too tired to say anything in return. Her assertiveness barely masks the unsettling grief that shimmers beneath her skin. Under any other circumstances you'd be at her side with sugar cookies and a thoughtful ballad, but you don't even have it in you to sing.

Quinn's gone. Your voice is gone. Everything else fades quickly.

(~/~/~)

The music room is cold, like someone forgot to turn on the heat. Goosebumps dot the skin of your arms as you take a seat next to the empty chair where Quinn usually sits. Rubbing your hands over the flesh to try and warm up, you're startled by the sudden presence that takes Quinn's chair.

"Have you heard anything?" Finn can't look you in the eye. You want to remind him that _he _broke up with _you_, that you weren't the one to end anything you had, but he will always blame you. "I know you and Quinn were sort of friends, so… Have they… Do you know anything?"

"Leave her alone, Hudson," Santana says as she sweeps in behind your chair.

He furrows his eyebrows and turns to give Santana a dirty look. "Since when do you care about Rachel? You're always spreading crap about her and making her feel bad."

"Mmkay, I totally stopped listening when you opened your mouth, but your presence is exhausting me." Santana's fingers leave the back of your chair and weave through your hair. "Rachel, wow, your hair is so soft. What kind of shampoo do you use?"

"H-Herbal Essences," you stutter, freezing as she plays with your brown locks.

Finn glares at both of you in disgust then moves to sit with Mike Chang, leaving Santana to fill the empty chair beside you. She grins widely at you before Brittany plops onto her lap with a heavy sigh. Your heart tugs at the thought of Quinn in your lap, which may never happen now if she doesn't come home.

Mr. Schuester has tears in his eyes as he takes a seat on the piano bench, ignoring the sheet music he crumples by sitting down. Any other day you would have berated him for so carelessly wrecking something so precious but you can't even open your mouth to complain. His demeanor is no doubt caused by Quinn's disappearance and for an awful moment you're sure he's about to tell you they found her body.

A sob escapes your chapped lips. Both Brittany and Santana reach over to put a comforting hand on your arm. They understand; she was their friend.

"Lima PD's asking anyone with information to call their anonymous tip line. They… They found Quinn's sweater in the river this morning. But it could mean anything," Mr. Schue says, his voice fading to a whisper as hope leaves his eyes.

"Which sweater?" Brittany asks, her head on Santana's shoulder. "Which sweater did they find?"

You stare at your shoes as you speak. "Her white cardigan. She was wearing it that night."

Images of the white cardigan soaked with blood fill your thoughts and though you try desperately to replace them with images of Quinn's beautiful face, it backfires and you see her with the flesh falling off. You try to scream. A whisper comes out instead; you whisper her name.

Puck punches the chair next to him, sending it flying into Artie's wheelchair and causing everyone to jump. "I'm so sick of just sitting here! Why aren't we out looking for her? Why aren't we searching every inch of this town?"

"What difference would it make?" Finn shouts, rising up out of his seat. "We all know it's a matter of time before they find her body and I don't really want to be the one to find that."

Santana throws her arms around your middle to hold you back but you break free and are quickly in Finn's face with your hands wrapped around his thick, stupid neck. "I'll kill _you_ and see how you like people talking about you like you're a lost dog and you know they'll _never_ find your body."

Mike Chang picks you up by the waist and carries you away from Finn, who has bloody scratches on his neck where you clawed him. You start to punch Mike's chest in anger at him stopping you, but your growls turn to sobs as he hands you to Santana. She sits you on her knee, Brittany now in your chair, and pulls you close as you cry. Her fingers trace patterns along your scalp, something you always thought moms did with their children, but you never knew it felt so calming.

"You open your mouth again, Hudson, and I'll fill it with my fist," she says in a soft voice, aiming the threat behind her but not moving in fear of disturbing you.

Mr. Schuester leans hard on the piano keys, making a noise similar to a cat being crushed by a vending machine like in that video Kurt showed you on Youtube. "Quinn will be okay," he says mostly to himself. "She'll be home soon."

"We're bouncing," Santana announces, rising and simultaneously taking your hand and Brittany's. "You geeks are poison."

A few questioning eyes pry as you leave with two of the most popular cheerleaders in the school, but they're still afraid of you pouncing on them like you did Finn, and you use that fear to put barriers between them and you. Santana tugs you along like a child and for once you're happy to be on her side.

(~/~/~)

Brittany turns her car's heater up full blast to try and warm the three of you. March has never been kind to Ohio, but since Quinn went missing it's been colder than usual. As you leave the parking lot, crammed in the back seat with Santana and a large stuffed duck, it occurs to you that you never knew Brittany could drive. You always assumed her spacey mind would inhibit her from getting her license, but apparently there's more to her than she lets known.

Santana gives your arm an affectionate pat and for the first time you focus enough to wonder why she isn't dumping a blueberry slushie down your shirt.

"I'm not complaining, but… why are you guys being so nice to me?" you ask as the heat reaches an unbearable degree. Your sweater begins to itch from the temperature, pricking your skin.

"Quinn would totally kill us if we let you be a sad zombie," Brittany explains as she changes lanes, cutting off a minivan full of kids.

Santana smiles fondly at her girlfriend before translating. "You're Quinn's girl, as weird as it is, so you'd inevitably have become part of our group anyway. We figured you could use someone right now. I mean, Berry, you're wearing jeans. I don't think I've ever seen you out of those weird skirts. You're clearly distraught."

"I like those short skirts," Brittany muses in a soft voice. "Rachel has a nice a-"

"Brit! Please." Santana pinches the bridge of her nose before turning to you and smiling. "You're not as horrible as I always thought, Berry. It just sucks that it took something like this to show me that."

You're silent, marveling in the glow of a compliment from Santana Lopez. It fills you with a sort of sick pride, knowing you've been accepted, but only because Quinn's disappearance brought you closer. She's gone and it hits you full force as a truck barrels past your side of the car.

"Where are we going?" you ask, suddenly aware of how far away you are from school.

Brittany slows to a stop at a red light then turns in her seat to give you a careful smile. "Quinn had this dream of visiting the zoo, the one in the next town over. I thought we'd ask if they've seen her. And we could drive around to see if we can find her. It's better than waiting back at school and watching Mr. Schue cry."

"That is an image I could've gone without," Santana mumbles from underneath the stuffed duck. It fills her whole lap but she clutches it tight, like it can rid her of sadness.

"Give Lucas a kiss for me," Brittany tells her.

Santana presses her lips to the duck's head and gives you a sheepish look. "He's our kid. I won him for Brit at a fair last summer and we take him everywhere. Except I'm supposed to hold him, because I haven't yet bought him a carseat."

"I don't want him getting hurt if there's an accident," Brittany replies.

"I know, babe. You take good care of him," Santana says with fond eyes.

You smile sadly at both of them and sink back into your seat, listening to the couple banter playfully about Lucas the duck. If anything, their sweet adoration makes you miss Quinn even more. You wish for maybe the hundredth time you'd treated her as more than just a hook-up. She came to you looking for sex, but half the time you ended up discussing your secret dreams and aspirations. You were falling in love. Maybe you're still falling.

(~/~/~)

The workers at the zoo haven't seen anyone that resembles Quinn, leaving you with no leads. Brittany drives slowly through the unfamiliar streets and all three of you desperately look out for a flash of blonde hair and that gorgeous face. A light rain starts to fall, smearing the windows, and after three hours Santana makes the heavy suggestion of heading home.

Quinn isn't here. You close your eyes and try to feel her energy like you saw once on Ghost Whisperer, but you feel nothing. Either it doesn't really work or she's gone. You hope for the first, but the latter clings to your heart with chills.

"We'll do this tomorrow and the next day and every day until we find her," Santana tells you as Brittany pulls into your driveway. "I promise, Rachel. We'll find her."


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: What is it about angst that's so appealing? I keep accidentally making myself cry while either writing or considering what's going to happen next. My mother (who I read everything to, and force to watch Glee whenever I can) told me she didn't want to hear it because it broke her heart. But something keeps drawing me back, time after time. Maybe it's the happiness that can come once it's over. Once all the loose ends are wrapped up and tucked into each other. We've overcome so much and the reward is worth it. /musings**

**Enjoy, lovies. I really appreciate the reviews; you guys are awesome. xx**

**(/)**

You lock yourself in your room before either of your dads can ask you if you're okay. They have to have heard about Quinn by now; the story runs every twenty minutes on the news. That's something you discovered last night as you tried to numb your thoughts with pointless TV, and while channel-flipping you caught a glimpse of her face with 'MISSING' stamped across it. You'd quickly changed to the kids' channel, but it was too late. She was in your mind as one of those blank-eyed girls on the posters collecting dust on the supermarket's bulletin board.

A knock disrupts your thoughts; Papa mumbles softly through the door about hot chocolate in your favourite mug. It's one you'd painted as a child, covered in gold stars and sloppy music notes. He waits patiently until you unlock the door and flop back onto your bed, which dips as he takes a seat. There is indeed hot chocolate. He sets it on your side table.

"Quinn was a really good friend of yours, hmm?"

You can't be bothered to lift your head from the pillow as you speak, so your words are muffled. "Don't use past tense. It makes it sound like she's not coming home."

"Sorry," he says, rubbing your back.

"She's more than a friend, Papa. We… We're…" You can't find the right words to explain it.

"I know," he says. "She wasn't so quiet while sneaking out at five in the morning."

"I'm not gay," you inform him.

"Hey, people don't need labels," he replies, and you're thankful for his easy-going attitude. "She'll be okay, sweetheart. They'll find her. I know it's really hard and you're worried, but everything is going to be fine."

"No. Quinn says she's fine when I can smell her inner-turmoil. Fine never means anything good. It's a lie people use to cover up something bad." You roll over quickly to face him.

He gives you a look mixed with concern and empathy. "Quinn is going to come home and you'll be able to tell her all those things you always meant to say. Don't give up hope."

You want to tell him that despite the hope you still close your eyes to images of her body, but he gives you a final pat and rises to leave you alone. The hot chocolate in your favourite mug will keep you company as you try to think of anything besides Quinn. She's only hurting you now. After an hour you give up and fish a bottle of vodka out from under your bed. It was your dad's, but you thought you might need it and a couple swigs numb you to the point of dreamless sleep.

(~/~/~)

Santana and Brittany swing by to pick you up in the morning. You slept past your alarm and they burst into your room while you're still in bed, wearing your pink flannel pyjamas. You don't want to get up.

"This may be the most depressing sight I've seen since I found Brittany's dad crying along to _The Titanic_," Santana says loudly as she pulls you to a sitting position. "Come on, Berry. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. We have a busy day ahead of us."

Brittany rifles through your closet until she finds a black sequined mini-dress. "This is hot. Why don't you ever wear this to school?"

"Brittany, that's clearly for special occasions. Dig out an argyle sweater and some short little skirt so we can get her dressed. I need to see the real Rachel Berry again," Santana admits as she strips you of your pyjama top. You half-heartedly cover your bare chest. "Wow, Little Jew, where have you been hiding those all this time?"

You have to laugh at her raised eyebrows and smirk of intrigue.

"Argyle sweater, ass-baring skirt," Brittany calls out, tossing the clothes to Santana.

The two cheerleaders strip you down and dress you up in an outfit that vaguely echoes your personality. The dark orange socks clash with the yellow sweater but you say nothing because Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce just saw you naked and right now your tongue can't form words because it's pinched between your teeth. You feel like an invalid or a grieving mother, being dressed and led downstairs and fed an English muffin. They don't need you to speak, so you don't. There's nothing left to say anyway after they've seen you naked.

(~/~/~)

Brittany's car takes you to the grimier parts of Lima today. You avert your eyes from the hollow women on the street corners and search for any sign that Quinn's been here. At this point, you can't even explain what you're looking for. But every inch you see is somewhere she's not and it brings you closer to where she is. It's what you tell yourself, at least, as you turn your head away from another crumpled man giving up under a soiled sleeping bag.

"Why do places like this even exist?" Santana mumbles from under Lucas, and you realize she has silent tears running down her cheeks. "I just want to fix all these broken people and let them be happy."

Brittany can't stop so she speaks to you through the rearview mirror. "Rachel, give Santana a hug for me."

You fold the Latina and Lucas in your arms, pressing yourself as close as the seatbelt will allow you. She crumples at your touch and lets her tears fall for more than just the broken people on the other side of the car windows. After you release her and move back to your side of the backseat, keeping a watchful eye on her, she wipes her cheeks and meets your gaze.

"We used to come here looking for my mom. It collects the dregs of our town, like the crap at the bottom of your teacup. It never tastes right. These streets just swallow people whole, Berry. But they say everyone ends up here in the end, a needle in their arm, and a death wish pinned to their heart." Santana buries her face in Lucas and only resurfaces to tell you the tiny thought that followed her sigh. "It's a good escape because no one ever asks your name. But after awhile my mom started to forget who she was, and taking her home got harder and harder. Swallows people whole, to the point where you want to just leave them here."

Your words won't make a dent in her unmasked pain, you know this much to be true, but your silence will only let her continue to drown under everything, so you try to say something at least semi-intelligent. "Santana, I… I had no idea."

"Yeah, well, it's not exactly something I'd like spread around. Doesn't exactly fit my reputation as the school slut." She pauses and glances at her hands. "There's a lot you don't know about me."

"Santana's like an onion," Brittany interjects from the front seat. All eyes jump to her. "The layers. She has… layers. It's from Shrek."

"Oh," you say, because nothing else comes to mind.

The slow drive through east Lima continues in silence after this, cut by the occasional sniffle from Santana and collective intake of air as you pass yet another irrelevant blonde. You feel like asking what this is even doing to help, just driving aimlessly, but what Brittany said the other day still rings true. It is much better than watching Mr. Schuester sob into his test papers.

(~/~/~)

When the sun threatens to disappear over the horizon, it's Brittany's turn to suggest heading home. Only she suggests her own home, that you and Santana come over for at least an hour, maybe the night, and you surprise yourself by agreeing. This is Brittany Pierce, the same cheerleader who spread a rumor that you once made out with a cat. But she's been so nice to you in light of recent events that you can't help but smile when she smiles at you through the rearview mirror.

Her house is warm and full of trophies and photos of the Pierce children. You don't have long to look at the images of Brittany through the years though, as Santana quickly ushers you upstairs to Brittany's childlike bedroom. The dollhouse near the closet puts a smile on your face, but it quickly fades to a frown as you realize in lieu of a doll in the canopy bed, she's tucked in a bottle of Jack Daniels. The white wicker bed-frame screams innocence until your hand finds the notches representing every person she's slept with that up until now you thought were locker room rumors. There are thirty notches. Brittany follows your gaze to the bed-frame and gives you a sheepish, yet sad, smile. Thirty regrets?

Santana snakes an arm around your waist and tugs you onto the bed, where she's gathered various bottles of alcohol. "You won't remember tonight," she says, and you swallow hard.

Within the hour you've drank enough to leave you floating above the horrors of reality, but not enough to make your head spin. Santana's pacing you. She tells you it'll be best if you alternate sips of water with your drink of choice and you comply, knowing your dads wouldn't appreciate you coming home in the morning with a raging hangover. The three of you lie on the bed with your heads touching, only sitting up to take a swig then falling back in place. It seems right until you realize you're Quinn's placeholder, the warm body in the middle of the cheerleaders where she's supposed to be.

You remember how many nights Quinn would climb in your window smelling like a pub, just having come from Brittany or Santana's house – whoever's was free of parents. Those where the nights she'd straddle you wordlessly, searching for pleasure to erase her pain. Those were the nights she'd fall asleep with her cheek on yours and her tears left puddles in your hair.

"Wherever she is, I hope she was lucky enough to get out of Lima," Santana says with the bottle of Jack tucked in her arms like a doll. "This town… it can't contain us. We'll fizzle out before we escape."

All those secret fears of being stuck here forever, probably teaching at a suffocating high school, come rushing into your conscious. Angry, you push them away. "No. No, we're getting out of here. All of us. With Quinn."

"We don't matter enough to be anything other than Lima Losers," Brittany mumbles, snuggling up to you with a sigh.

"I've been to New York City with my dads before, to see Les Mis on Broadway. And you know what I learned? Absolutely anyone can make it there. You just need the drive to get yourself there," you say as you absentmindedly run a hand along Brittany's side. You like the curve of her waist, how it feels like it was made to be held by loving arms.

"Do you really think we can get there someday? All of us and Quinn?" Santana's China doll voice nearly breaks your heart but you gather yourself to reply.

"I promise," you say a little too loud. It hurts your ears but Santana relaxes into your side. "Quinn will come home and we'll all move to New York City."

"Can we get an apartment together?" Brittany asks, folding her hand around yours.

You give her a squeeze. "Of course. We'll be stars."

"Doing what?" Santana asks with a yawn, curling into her Jack Daniels.

"Just… shining. We could be happy. Don't you think?" Your head finally feels light enough to smile, a genuine smile, at the thought of a future with Quinn. And Santana, and Brittany.

"We could be happy," Brittany echoes sleepily, clutching your hand even tighter than before.

As you turn your head you notice Santana's fallen asleep with the bottle of Jack supporting her head. With her eyes shut, she looks like a child. If you replaced the bottle with a teddy bear, you imagine she could be innocent and young and unaffected by the world. She sighs in her sleep and you wish, so desperately, that all of you could be young again. Young enough so the big things don't matter.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: I didn't say for sure, but it will most likely have a happy ending. If all goes according to plan. Thanks for reading guys, and don't hate me for this chapter. Sorry it took a few days to get on here. I've taken to sleeping 20 hours a day. :/**

**(/)**

You awake to Brittany placing a tender kiss on your forehead, then one on Santana's, and when she notices your dark eyes on her she quickly turns to flash you a grin. "Good morning, Rachel. Did you know you sing in your sleep? It's cute. I made oatmeal. Vegans can eat that, right? Quinn told me-"

"Yes," you say with a smile, pushing yourself up on your elbows. "That's really thoughtful of you, Brittany."

"Well… Quinn talked a lot about how she wanted to learn more vegan recipes, so she could cook for you. I thought it was nice. I wanted to do something nice for you, because Quinn isn't here to." Brittany nods once then moves back to her girlfriend and gives her a light shake. "San, baby…"

You rise to your feet and glance down at your crumpled clothes, which smell faintly of Santana's perfume and strongly of alcohol. "You're a sweetheart. And I smell."

Santana's eyes flutter open and she pulls Brittany close to kiss her. The pair smiles into each other and Brittany helps Santana to a sitting position so you can all start your day. Somehow you know without asking that today will be spent out driving again, but you don't really mind. It feels better than waiting for more news. And you know you can't focus long enough to sit through class.

Surprisingly, the oatmeal is edible. Santana chokes down a full bowl before whispering to you that she's never liked oatmeal but she'd do anything for Brittany. After breakfast you congregate back in her bedroom and you vocalize your lack of clean clothes.

"Do you want to wear my spare Cheerios uniform?" Brittany's eyes light up and she dives into her closet to fish it out.

You exchange a glance with Santana and she giggles. "I've always secretly wanted to see you in uniform," she says.

It's a little loose in the skirt but the top's filled out nicely and Brittany cheers as you do a twirl. Standing with the other Cheerios, you finally feel like you're a part of something; like you're not stuck on the outside of yet another group. Even if you're not technically on the team, today you look the part, and it's enough for you.

"Damn, Berry, this'd put so many ideas in Quinn's head," Santana says with her eyes still wide from a mixture of shock and excitement.

"Stop drooling, San," Brittany teases. "I always told you there was a hot body under all that argyle."

"You saw me naked the other day," you remind them as you run your hands down the uniform. It feels like it was meant to be on you; like it was meant to be this way.

"Mm," Brittany replies, shutting her eyes momentarily. "You should join Cheerios. You'd be fun in the locker room."

Santana laughs as you nearly choke on air and heat rises to your cheeks. Did Brittany really just say that? You don't have time to ask her to clarify as you're rushed to the car with Santana's hand on the small of your back. She lets you hold Lucas today and you feel like a part of their family. It fills you with warmth until you remember you're only here because Quinn's gone, and then you're nauseous. Santana takes your hand. She nods at you and you realize she knows what you're thinking. She's telling you otherwise.

Brittany decides today you should use the time to get to know each other better. Really, she just doesn't want to be quiet enough to let the fears in while you venture through west Lima – the neighbourhood of empty strip malls and long stretches of wilderness. Santana starts it off by asking you about having two dads.

"We watch a lot of musicals," you say. "And when I got my period, I called 911 because I thought I was dying."

Santana snorts then slowly shakes her head in amusement. "That's almost as bad as me. I thought I'd been stabbed in my sleep or something and I screamed until my dad came and told me I was fine."

"Didn't your mom give you The Talk?" you ask.

"Uhh, no. She wasn't… She was still… My mom wasn't allowed to see me until I was fourteen. She had a drug problem. It didn't really get any better," Santana says without breaking eye contact.

"Is she still living with you?" you ask, now tucking Lucas under your chin.

"No," she mutters. "No, she's in a treatment centre in the country. Or at least that's what my dad says. She really could be anywhere. But it doesn't bother me."

"Yes it does," Brittany counters, narrowly avoiding a cyclist that comes out of nowhere.

Santana glances between you and Brittany before tugging on her seatbelt and scowling. "It pisses me off, okay? I'm so mad at her for doing this to me. I deserve a mom." Her voice gives out as if she's ashamed to utter these words, her truth, and she averts her eyes to the window.

"You do, Santana," you say softly.

"Can we talk about something else now? Please?" she begs.

"Rachel," Brittany says quickly. "How did you and Quinn… start?"

"She was drunk and I was there," you say with a shrug, then decide to further explain as you're met with blank looks. "I was out on one of my many midnight walks after Finn brutally broke my heart when Quinn literally ran into me. We both nearly fell over but I managed to keep us standing. She smelled strongly of rum and was blubbering on about Sam, then her dad, then slushies and she sort of lost me. She was crying so I hugged her, because I felt bad, and then she kissed me."

_Quinn pulls away for a moment to meet your eyes and you see her confusion, fear, and intense need for someone, anyone, to hold her. So you take her in your arms, close to your pounding heart, and stroke her hair until her sobs subside. _

"_I'm sorry, Rachel," she whispers before pressing her lips to yours a second time. Her nails dig into your arms as you feel her slowly collapsing into you. She's just as scared as you are, probably more so, making what she says next even sweeter. "I can't be alone right now. I need… I need you."_

"I took her home with me and she fell asleep almost immediately," you say softly, remembering how tousles of her hair fell across her face, perfectly framing her mascara-streaked eyes. You wanted to kiss her, to smooth out the wrinkles of worry in her forehead, but you instead fell asleep with a barrier of space between the two of you. In the morning, her head was on your chest. "She admitted when we woke up she was glad that I was the one who found her. She said she wasn't the bitchy cheerleader and I wasn't the irritating glee club diva. We were just people."

Santana eyes you with unashamed curiosity, her gaze warm and unbreaking as you duck your head and blush. You've never shared the intimate details of that first night with anyone before. Initially it feels like a betrayal, but it lightens you, letting Santana and Brittany into this part of your life, and you ease into a smile.

"When'd you two first have sex?" Santana blurts out, quickly jerking to cover her mouth with her hand. "I mean, you don't have to… but if you want-"

"About a week went by with complete silence on her part, then one night she showed up at my door while my dads were in New York and asked if we could talk. Quinn Fabray does not understand the concept of talking. She asked me where I kept the alcohol, fixed us both drinks, and proceeded to jump my bones." You chuckle, recalling how flustered she'd become about two minutes into it when it became clear neither of you had much experience in that area. But she persevered, driven by vodka and the silent sadness that clung to her, and afterwards she clung to you like a lost child while you tried to understand what'd just happened.

Brittany clicks her tongue and slows to a stop at yet another inconvenient red light. "Quinn always talked about you too much to hate you. It makes sense."

"But she was always making fun of Rachel," Santana says with a confused look.

"Duh, San, because she likes her. It's like when we were seven and you'd pull my hair and tell everyone my parents were ducks because-"

"I had a big lesbian crush on you," Santana cuts in, snickering. "Yes. Got it. Only Quinn's sixteen, not seven."

"But she was raised by Daddy Christian and didn't even know what a lesbian was until we were twelve. Remember that sleepover?" Brittany smirks at both of you through the mirror and you're suddenly aware of how little you truly know about Quinn.

"What sleepover?" you ask, shifting Lucas slightly so you can stretch your legs.

Santana puts a hand on your bare thigh and drums her fingers, giving you a cheeky smile. "Let's just say she had a lot of questions that we answered with a lot of lesbian porn."

"At twelve?" You try to picture Santana as innocent at any age, but it's impossible.

She winks and runs her hand up to just under your skirt. "Scared, Berry?"

If anyone seems scared, it's her. Despite the confidence she tries to exude, you can see the glimmer of fear in her dark eyes as she slowly removes her hand and flushes.

"Wait, Rachel, do Quinn's parents know that she's screwing you?" Brittany interrupts the tension.

You clear your throat and shift away from Santana. "Actually, um, her mom was the first person to know. She kind of caught us in their hot tub. I thought she was going to throw a bible at me or stab me with a crucifix but she just told us to keep quiet because Mr. Fabray would be home soon. And then she introduced me to him as Quinn's best friend. Which, I don't know if you're aware, was so out of character for this evil woman who let her pregnant daughter get kicked out. I was flabbergasted."

"I don't know what that means," Brittany admits quietly.

"Surprised," Santana tells her. Then she turns to you. "It's because Judy Fabray doesn't believe in God. I've known this since I was eight. She doesn't believe in hate, or homophobia, or hell. But Russell does, and he'd beat her senseless if they weren't the perfect Christian lie."

"So why'd she take him back after he cheated on her?" you ask.

"Because she loves him. And love is nothing if not crazy." Santana shoots an affectionate smile at the back of Brittany's chair and hums. "Do you love Quinn, Rachel?"

This stuns you into silence. It's something you've vaguely entertained, but in a grand scheme kind of way; something that crosses your mind as you drift off to sleep. And when you ask yourself, in a tiny voice, if you love her, you're always answered with the same image: Quinn tangled in your sheets as the sun filters in, resting on her pale skin like whispers. When you're with her, you feel like you're falling. But you have yet to find out if she'll catch you.

"Crazy," Santana repeats as her cell phone blares out the theme song to Jersey Shore. She quickly flips it open and presses it to her ear. "Hello? Puck, hey. They what? What? No, we'll be right there. Yeah. Holy fuck. Thanks for calling. Mkay. See you soon." With shaking hands she ends the call and turns to you. She's crying. "They found her. Quinn. She- They found her."

"Is she okay?" you ask as every muscle in your body freezes. "Santana! Is she okay?"

Santana starts to sob heavily. "She's at the hospital. She's alive. That's all Puck said, Rachel. She's at the hospital."

The car screeches and horns blare as Brittany pulls an illegal U-turn. "We'll be there in ten."


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's note: _*TRIGGER WARNING* _**

**_This chapter contains some content that may be triggering for anyone who's had to deal with sexual abuse or childhood traumas._ It also caused my sister to cry and yell at me to never read this to her again. Please don't hate me. The angst is just bubbling over. I'd say enjoy, but, you'd be a sicko. **

**(/)**

Brittany clutches your hand like she can't stand without you as Santana screams at a nurse to take you to Quinn Fabray's room. The nurse is saying something about patient privacy laws, but you can only really hear beeping from a myriad of machines and the faint sound of a child crying. Brittany pulls you closer to her when Santana advances on the nurse like a hungry lion, and you're sure she's going to hit her until a pair of strong arms grab her waist and haul her away. It's Puck. He pulls Santana into his chest before turning to you and Brittany.

"She's on the second floor. They won't let me see her, but I've been hanging around the waiting room hoping I'll hear some news. Her parents are with her now," he says somberly, stroking Santana's hair.

Brittany drags you towards the elevator and motions for the others to follow. "Well let's go wait then. If we stay here I'm scared Santana's gonna have another lawsuit."

In the waiting room, you rest your head on Brittany's shoulder and shake. The reality of Quinn being here, in the hospital, sinks into your bones as Brittany adjusts so she can rub your back. Her hands trace soothing patterns through the fabric of your top. Your jaw hurts from clenching your teeth, but you're afraid of relaxing in case you start to cry.

"So, any reason Rachel's in that sexy uniform?" Puck asks, disturbing Santana, who's been resting in his lap. "Not that I'm complaining."

"I dressed her today," Brittany says softly.

"She's hot, right?" Santana barely raises her head to say this.

"She's always been hot. She's a Jew," Puck retorts, trying to ease the tension.

You entertain the idea of replying, but it seems like too much effort, and suddenly all you see is the towering form of Russell Fabray. He holds his hat against his chest as if it's been there forever. When he sees you, his posture weakens and he hurries over to you.

"You're Quinn's best friend," he barely whispers, and it sounds like he's been crying. "I didn't know you did cheerleading with her."

"Yeah, we throw her in the air because she's so tiny," Santana says before you can speak. She's quick to sit up. "Rachel's our flyer."

"Totally," Brittany agrees.

Mr. Fabray clears his throat and glances up at the clock. "That's really nice. I um, Judy heard you guys were here. She said to get Rachel. We'd let you all come see her, but the doctors said only family."

"But- I'm not-" you start. Brittany shoves you forward.

"You've always been my favourite daughter," Russell jokes, reaching to take your hand.

You mouth 'thank-you' as he helps you up and as you turn to follow him to see Quinn, you suddenly don't want to go just yet. Santana must hear your silent prayers because she speaks right as you're about to leave.

"Is Quinn… how is she?" she asks in that fragile voice.

Russell faces her and knots his eyebrows together like you've seen Quinn do so many times. In fact, almost all of his expressions have graced Quinn's face at some point. "She's pretty shaken up. My poor baby girl, she… She's been through a lot. The doctors want to keep her at least overnight, for, for observation."

"She's strong," Puck says mostly to himself. "She'll get through this."

(~/~/~)

You practically fall on top of Judy Fabray as she exits Quinn's room and she pulls you into a hug, nearly crushing you. Your face is in her chest and you're assaulted by her overbearing perfume, but her arms are a comfort in this hospital fog.

"Rachel, baby," she says in a teary voice. "Quinnie isn't… isn't herself. Just don't expect too much."

You shake your head as she releases you from the hug and plants a kiss on your forehead. Russell takes her elbow and suggests they make some calls and grab something to eat, seeing as Quinn'll be in good company. He claps a hand on your shoulder and wishes you luck before heading down the hall with his trembling wife.

The door's open a crack, but all you see is the end of the bed and a pale blue blanket. As you advance, you start to shiver and you want to close your eyes – protect your heart from the sight in front of you. Quinn's frail, bruised body lies under piles of blankets, attached to machines by wires and tubes. Her skin is translucent, revealing the map of veins and arteries that streak through her. She looks broken and all you want to do is fix her, but you're so afraid of touching her. She might crumble beneath you.

"Quinn? It's Rachel," you whisper, then clear your throat and repeat yourself.

She rolls over to face you – a feat in itself as she nearly yanks out an IV line, and gives you an echo of her usual smile. "I told Mom to find you," she croaks.

You drift to her bedside and carefully weave your fingers through hers. "I'm here, babe. And I'm so happy you're okay. I mean, that you're here. Home. I was so worried. I-" Betraying any attempts to be strong, you start to cry. "I'm sorry. I seem to be doing a lot of this."

"It's okay, Rachel. I'm safe. I'm not going anywhere." Quinn's hazel eyes roam over your body and a soft tinge of pink flits across her cheeks. "Since when are you a Cheerio?"

Despite the tears, you smile. "Brittany dressed me. She and Santana sort of adopted me while you were… gone? Where were you, Quinn?"

She shakes her head and grips your hand with fierce determination. "I don't really want to talk about it. Not yet, okay? I'm still really shaken up about it."

"I don't want to hurt you, but you were gone for three days and they found your sweater in the river and Quinn, we all thought you were dead," you ramble with another round of tears falling.

Something shifts in her hazel eyes and she focuses hard on the gold star dangling from a chain 'round your neck, carefully avoiding your soft gaze. "I was taken. Kidnapped, they're calling it. It came out of nowhere; I was out on a walk and suddenly I was… taken. Sedated, or something." Quinn sobs once then bites down hard on her lip. "I escaped. And now I'm here."

She shudders and half-buries her face in the pillow, trying to stifle another sob. You desperately want to know what happened, why she's so timid now and battered, but she wants you quiet so you're quiet. Her nose scrunches as she squeezes her eyes shut, and when her forehead's filled with anxious wrinkles, you smooth them out with a kiss.

"I could only think about you, those whole three days," Quinn murmurs into the pillow.

Her sentence causes you to burst into tears again and you feel so guilty for crying when you haven't gone through whatever happened to her. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there to protect you."

"I was on my way to see you when it…" Her words are mixed with those gasps of air that come with crying for too long, only no tears have fallen from her eyes. She keeps sobbing but her cheeks remain dry, as if she's been completely drained by the kidnapping.

Kidnapping. It's a word you've heard tossed around on Law and Order: SVU yet you never once imagined it would find a place in your life. You can vaguely picture the hard faces of kidnappers on TV, and all the nauseating things they did, but some heavenly mental block protects you from seeing too much. If you could think properly, you might figure out what happened to Quinn. But the feverish fear that comes from seeing how tattered she is makes you wonder if you really want to know.

"Santana, Brittany, and Puck are in the waiting room, do you want-" you start, but Quinn's harsh words cut you off.

"No. Tell them to go home."

"They're really worried about you, Quinn. They're your friends. Don't you think you're being a bit hasty?" you say nervously.

"No. I don't want them to see me like this. I'm hideous. Do you see all these bruises? He destroyed me," she growls in a voice that's completely not Quinn.

"Baby, you're still beautiful-"

"Can you go too? I really just want to sleep." The words sting your skin as she spits them at you, but you brush away the threat of tears and start to back away.

"I really hope you feel better," you say in a choked voice.

She doesn't even bother to raise her eyes to watch you leave.

(~/~/~)

Santana doesn't ask any questions as you run into the waiting room with a hand over your mouth. She stands quickly to pull you into a hug and the contact is the closest to okay you've felt all week. Puck starts to say something, but you tear away from Santana's arms just in time to decorate the linoleum floor with vomit.

"Oatmeal for breakfast?" Puck asks feebly as Santana yells for a caretaker or _someone_ to clean this up. You nod and once again find yourself in Santana's arms. She fishes a mint out of a packet in her bra and pops the lozenge in your mouth; you're then led away from the mess by her protective hold.

(~/~/~)

Brittany drives you to Santana's house, sensing your want to stay away from your own bedroom (which is tainted by a mixture of memories and nightmares of Quinn). She regretfully says she can't stay though – something about her little sister's birthday dinner, which seems so flimsy amongst everything that's happened – leaving you with the former head cheerleader whose usual scowl has been replaced by a look of worry. She's worried about Quinn, of course, but mostly you. Her hands barely leave yours, even when she's cooking dinner. She's worrying about _you._

The two of you eat your meal of mac 'n cheese and instant mashed potatoes in front of the TV. It's a show about a family with twelve or thirteen kids, but you only really pay attention in the commercials. And sure enough, as you drop a piece of macaroni in your lap, _it_ comes on the screen.

"The latest Amber Alert, Quinn Fabray, has been found, but her kidnapper is still out there. Said to be about 6'1", with dark brown hair and a curly beard, he was last seen wearing-"

"Not even the TV's safe," Santana says quietly, staring blankly in front of hear, and her hand goes limp in yours.

"-and driving a white van. Anyone with information is asked to call Crime Stoppers-"

It hurts too much. You scramble for the remote and flip to the kids' channel, where a lion and a zebra are singing a song about friendship. Bright colours flash across the screen and you bite back the urge to tell the damn zebra to _run, because as soon as you're not looking the lion will attack._

"Judy came to see us while Russell was in the cafeteria." Santana pauses and you wish you could say 'Judy' so freely without 'Mrs. Fabray' sticking in your throat. "She told us they found her on the side of the highway, unconscious. They think she crawled there. Her knees are all torn up, Judy said. They think she was crawling for hours."

"She won't talk about it. She didn't even… want me," you say to the TV tray.

"Judy said the doctors think it's more psychological damage than anything else. She said… they did a rape kid. And Qui— she nearly dislocated her wrist, from restraints, or something, but she won't tell anyone anything. Only that she was on a walk, and then after, she was in the hospital," Santana says in her China doll voice. She's given up on finishing dinner. The lion on TV's dancing with a crocodile, and it makes you want to punch them both.

"Do you think she doesn't remember?" you ask.

Santana presses her lips into a thin line. "She remembers. It's why she won't tell."

None of this makes any sense to you. This seems like a script from some trashed episode of Without a Trace, the way each new piece of information brings bile to your throat. It wasn't written in the plans. Quinn was going to be your girlfriend, in public, and after graduation, you'd both move to New York City to become famous. You'd share a crappy apartment, then a better apartment, and then a penthouse with enough room for kids down the line. Nowhere did it say Quinn got kidnapped. Nowhere was it written that she crumbled.

"You know I was raped, when I was younger," Santana mumbles as she turns on the couch to face you.

More bile rises in your throat and you swallow it down. "I didn't know; I'm sorry."

"Brittany doesn't even know. It'd only hurt her. But Quinn knew… She guessed it, actually, when we were fourteen. When I just couldn't stop having sex with anyone who'd offer. She promised not to tell. I said it didn't bother me, that it'd happened when I was four and I didn't remember much, but. Quinn knew the truth. She said I'd get better. And I did," she says with a shrug that's supposed to distract you from the tears in her eyes.

"You were only four?" At age four, you were competing in Little Miss pageants and filling your spare time with dance classes. You lost your first tooth and had to wear a flipper when performing.

Santana stretches out her legs so they're in your lap and your hands immediately start massaging her feet. She smiles but she's still crying. "It's why my mom wasn't allowed to see me. She took me to her dealer's house so she could get her fix and while she was shooting her, he took me to the back room. I thought he looked like Jesus. He smelled like rubber and I blamed Jesus for along time. I don't know who saved me. I squeezed my eyes shut and woke up in the hospital, with cops everywhere and my papi sobbing. _Men only cry for the really bad things_. I blamed Jesus and I blamed myself, and then he was crying into my hair, saying what a good girl I was."

You're crying harder than her at this point and she crawls across the couch so she's lying on top of you. Her head's on your heart. Baby girls shouldn't know hell; they shouldn't have a single day of suffering. Your tears fall into her dark hair and she tells you it's okay, because she doesn't hurt anymore. But you wonder how many nights she's woken up to feel Jesus still on her and you wonder how exactly that kind of hurt can ever go away.

"I love you, Santana," you tell her in a soft voice. She doesn't need any clarification as to what kind of love you mean; she knows like she knows when to hug you, and right now her arm drapes across your middle with the comfort of a security blanket.

"I love you too," she says into your heartbeat. "We're really going to need each other these next few months. It's going to be the hardest thing you've ever gone through."

"I know," you sigh.

"But you have me, always. I promise. When it's too much to take, you can scream into my arms. No one should have to go through this alone. And you'll have Brittany as well, but you know that. Shit, even Puck will be here. He's my best friend. He's gotten me through…" She yawns and buries her face in your Cheerios uniform. "So much."

"You don't have to do this," you say, even though you know how much you need her to.

"I do, Rachel," she says firmly. "You're in my heart now. That means I'll do everything to keep you safe."

Her dad doesn't come home that night and you fall asleep on the couch, Santana using you as a teddy bear, the TV on low volume. In the morning you wake to the Arthur theme song and you watch until you're crying.


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's note: I really appreciate your reviews, guys. But I would especially like to thank ysubassoon for making me cry with your lovely review. You made me see that by writing this, I'm actually healing my own wounds. I adore every single person who's read this and I want to thank you all so much because it really means the world to me. I hope no one's pissed that I've been neglecting my other stories to write for this one. :/ **

**(/)**

When Santana wakes you're sobbing your way through an episode of Timothy Goes to School. She sits up and cold rushes in where her skin had rested on yours; she'd been your blanket all night. With a loving hand, she wipes away your tears and smoothes down a few flyaway hairs.

"This cannot be healthy," she says as she changes the channel to an infomercial. A greying man is trying to sell an alarm clock that also makes toast.

"I could use that." You cough and point to the screen with a weak hand.

Santana watches the programme for a few minutes then snorts. "The best that could do is make warm bread. It's a waste of money. And anyway, we should get ready for school. I have some clothes you can change into after a warm shower."

"I don't want to go to school. I don't want to move. We should stay here and watch infomercials all day." Your head's pounding harder than that time you were hit with a falling stage light and you're even more nauseous than yesterday.

Pressing her lips to your forehead, Santana deems you fevered and says you most likely caught something from hanging around the hospital. She sighs and gives in to your plea to stay off school. "But at least let me draw you a bath, Rachel. You stink of sadness."

(/)

The water's hot enough to tinge your skin pink and alleviate some of the phlegm in your chest. It doesn't stop you from coughing though, and when a particularly nasty cough causes you to smack your head on the edge of the tub, Santana nearly breaks the door as she rushes inside. She gives you no time to cover yourself, but you figure at this point it doesn't really matter. She's seen it all before.

"Are you okay?" she asks breathlessly, nearly slipping on a small puddle by the sink. Luckily she catches herself before any harm is done.

It takes two forced coughs before you can speak. "What, were you perched outside the room, just waiting for any excuse to join me?"

She squats beside the tub then falls back onto her bum, sitting on the pink shag rug. "I thought you might have… I don't know. I was just worried. _Are_ you okay?"

You suppress a smile and nod slowly, reaching a pruny hand over the side of the bathtub to pat her shoulder. "Yes, Santana. I'm okay. I just coughed a little too hard. Now will you be okay or do you need me to hold your hand as I finish bathing?"

After a quick chuckle, her face slips into a frown and she chews on her bottom lip. "Do you need help washing your hair? Because I could—"

You nod and she moves to perch on the edge of the porcelain tub to be better positioned. Her fingers softly graze your scalp, giving it a gentle massage before she rubs in the berry-scented shampoo. It feels nice, the innocent touch. You've really missed being this close to someone. And it seems like it'll be awhile before Quinn will want to be close to you. The way she spoke to you yesterday, it evokes that fear that she's not going to want you anymore.

Santana's rinsing your hair with handfuls of water when the front door opens. Fearing it's her dad, you bring your knees up to your chest to cover anything important. Neither of you expect Brittany to slip into the bathroom with a paper bag from McDonald's. She pauses at the sight of Santana's hands in your hair, but flashes the both of you a confused smile and sits on the toilet.

"You guys weren't in first period, so I figured I should probably come find you," she says lightly, staring at the shampoo bottle that's dangerously close to falling in the water. She smiles sheepishly when you shove it further back onto the little shelf.

"Rachel's sick," Santana explains as she reaches for the conditioner.

Brittany's blue eyes flash with something close to regret. "So you're giving her a bath?"

Santana's silent as she squeezes a small dollop into the center of her palm. It makes it seem like she has something to hide, but you can't find the words to say otherwise.

"Did you fuck her?" Brittany asks softly, hugging the McDonald's bag.

Santana drops her hands from your hair. "No! I—"

"I won't be mad, San."

"No," you say calmly and firmly. The effort to keep your voice steady causes you to cough again. "Nothing happened. I love Quinn and Santana loves you. She's just being really nice."

Brittany nods, accepting this. Then her features shift to a shade of a pity. "It's not going to be easy, loving Quinn anymore. She's going to hurt you and you're going to hate her for it."

It's something you've known but never really felt, and her confirmation right now makes you want to slip underwater and never resurface. Quinn will hurt you, but. "I'll manage."

"You'll manage. You'll get by. But it'll hurt and exhaust you and one day you'll just wish you'd gotten rid of her while you still could."

"Brittany, why are you doing this? You're hurting Rachel," Santana says with a protective scowl.

Brittany sets the bag on the shag rug and stands to leave. "I got you guys breakfast. The counter guy said their hashbrowns were vegan, but I don't know if I can believe a pimply high school dropout. It's your choice, Rachel."

Your voice catches in your throat but you force it out regardless. "It doesn't matter; I had cheese last night anyway and… It just, it doesn't matter. Thank-you."

"I forgot mac 'n cheese isn't vegan-friendly. Sorry," Santana mumbles to you, and then turns to face her girlfriend. "Why are you doing this, Brit?"

She shakes her head and a halo of blonde hair whips around her. "I'll leave you guys to finish your bath. Santana, better get undressed so you can join her while the water's still warm. I wouldn't want you to suffer."

Brittany starts to walk away and you stand up quickly, feeling more vulnerable than ever as your naked body is fully on display. Her eyes harshly roam over ever inch of your skin before she gives you a glare she no doubt learned from Santana.

"If you're mad at me, then say it," you cry out in your now-raspy voice.

This stops her and her scowl drops to a mournful frown. "I'm just… mad. I'm just so fucking mad at everything!" She punches the door and something cracks, but you all pretend not to notice. "I hate this. Why is Rachel quiet and why is Santana scared and why is Quinn so… _different_?"

No one moves as Brittany sinks to her knees on the cold white tiles. Her tears put you all into some sort of frozen shock and all you can do is stand there in the cold bathwater, and Santana just sits with dried conditioner on her hands, and it _hurts_. Every gasp and every sob drives the hot blade further into your heart. But you don't comfort her because somewhere inside you, a voice says you deserve this pain. It's nothing compared to what Quinn must be feeling. The least you can do is bleed for her. This game of statues ends when you shove your first through the window. Slivers of glass and drops of blood rain down as you wonder if this pain, this horrible hot searing misery, is anything close to Quinn's.

Brittany's strong arms lift you out of the bath and Santana's gentle fingers wrap your wounds in bandages and both of them hug you in a towel as you just breathe. In. Out. Just breathe.

(/)

After you're dressed and the three of you pile onto Santana's bed with microwaved McDonald's, Brittany makes her confession.

"I wasn't in first period. I guessed you wouldn't be either, and I have a spare key, so… I went to see Quinn this morning. Her mom snuck me in. I was really nice and quiet, but Quinn threw her breakfast tray at me. She yelled at me. Quinn never yells. Her mom kept saying sorry until Quinn tried to throw the phone at her. That's when I left."

"She's going to be different for awhile, Brit," Santana mumbles as she picks at a hashbrown.

Brittany's been lying down since she fell onto the bed, sort of paralyzed, and her frustrated words rise to the ceiling like lost balloons. "But why?"

"Because the Quinn we know is still missing." You absentmindedly suck at some of the grease on your thumb and reach into the bottomless bag for another hashbrown. They taste too good to be vegan, but at this point you don't really care. The grease fills a hole. "She went through something horrible. And we may never know what, but we have to give her time to recover. She's probably still in shock."

"But why her? Why not someone who deserved hell, like Karofsky?" Brittany presses.

"No one deserves hell," Santana says, silently curling her fingers around your bandaged hand.

The way she speaks confirms your thoughts that she still hasn't fully recovered from her own personal hell. It makes you wonder if every single person in this town has to be initiated with some traumatic event. Does everyone carry a dark, shameful secret under their skin, buried deep in memories and regrets?

You inhale the wrong way and it launches you into a coughing fit similar to that smoker's hack that accompanies your Jewish grandmother. Brittany reaches up to pat your back, which doesn't ever help, but the gesture's always appreciated. Once you can breathe again, you sigh loudly.

"We need to stop skipping school," Brittany half-heartedly informs the room. "Mr. Schue called my house. He got the machine, and I erased his message, but he's sort of upset. Or, more worried. We haven't been to school since Monday."

"Things were normal Monday," you groan. "Until glee club. And that shitty, shitty news."

Santana's hand leaves you as she lies down next to Brittany; resting her head on her girlfriend's toned stomach. "Why was Quinn even out that night? We told her no drinking party. I was tired."

"She was coming to see me," you mutter. The greasy hashbrowns aren't filling any holes now. They only make you sick. "Does that make it my fault?"

"No," Santana says too quickly. Brittany echoes her.

Maybe you're supposed to feel guilty, but you don't. You're mad. You're mad that Quinn made you a part of this, that she needed you that night, and that you care. You're mad you might love her. You're mad you might hate her. And you're so confused.

"She'll get better and we'll all move to New York and be stars, remember?" Brittany pulls you back onto the bed next to her. You remember, but it's seeming more and more like a distant dream each time you let yourself think about it. "We'll all shine and be happy. You promised."

"I did promise. We'll be happy." It feels like the biggest lie you've ever told. At this point, you'd gladly settle for numb; anything to stop feeling all this pain. Happy seems like someone else's future.

(/)

It's Brittany's idea to curl up on the couch under layers of blankets and pop in a movie. She chooses the Lion King and you're fine for about ten minutes until you remember the dad dies – then you're bawling. Santana puts on an infomercial – this one for animal-themed garden tools, and it draws you in almost immediately. It's embarrassing, how you can't watch even the simplest child's program but a half hour commercial keeps you calm. No one will say it, but it's pathetic.

When Puck shows up at lunchtime with Chinese and a cryptic text from Mrs. Fabray, Santana's had to physically sit on you and shove the phone down her top so you won't buy any of the many useless products you've seen advertised all morning. It's not that you even want them; they just seem so enticing and… and hopeful.

Puck hands out takeout containers and flops into the overstuffed armchair, blatantly ignoring what's currently on TV. If he thinks it's weird, he doesn't say it. "Quinn's mom texted me while I was in science class. Old people shouldn't be allowed to text. This was like trying to read an essay written by a four year-old."

"What did it say?" Santana asks as she picks apart an egg roll.

He tosses her his phone and you read over her shoulder as she scrunches up her nose in confusion. She reminds you of Brittany, when she does this. But you won't tell her.

_**Q s cming hm in 2 dys. Q s nt rdy. She nt my dghtr. My Q.**_

"It's like she's allergic to vowels. And grammar. And English," Santana grumbles. "But why are they releasing her? I thought for sure they'd send her to the psych ward. Sorry, Rachel."

You wave it away with a chopstick and the same indifference you pretend to have with all of this. "S'okay."

"Right?" Puck searches around in a container of egg noodles before sighing and leaning back into his seat. "They had to sedate her last night because she was so hysterical. How is this at all ready to go home? She's only going to get worse, I swear. After the novelty of a damaged daughter wears off, Russell's just going to make her feel like shit. I've seen what that man can do. He broke her the first time."

This is where you tune out and pretend the carton in your lap is the most interesting thing you've ever seen, because you can't take any more of this Broken Quinn talk. They'll keep speaking and you'll wonder why exactly people bring food when something's wrong. Even you do it, you realize; you bake cookies to apologize or to make someone feel better. If someone were to bake you cookies right now, you'd probably toss the whole platter out the window. Hurting doesn't make you hungry. Food never fills the proper gaps.

At a certain point Brittany takes your hand and runs her fingertips over every line in the palm, as if it'll tell her your whole story. You realize Puck's in the middle of a story about Mr. Schue's breakdown in Spanish class, and you don't want to hear it but a sick part of you feels better knowing the teacher cracked a yard stick over a kid's desk when no one could properly conjugate _to grieve_. You would have skipped the desk and hit the kid, but you keep this to yourself.

Brittany's soft lips place a kiss in your palm and she closes your fingers over it while whispering, "A kiss to keep away the pain." She doesn't intend for you to hear, but it puts a tiny smile on your face.

Brittany does things like this – these little actions you'd expect from a child. She makes you feel better in innocent ways, but you remember the bottle of Jack Daniels in her doll bed and it churns your stomach. She's a sixteen year-old who acts six, but maybe it isn't an act. Maybe it's a mask like Santana's anger and she's hidden behind it for so long that she can't figure out how to be anyone else.

"Hey Brittany," you mumble into her shoulder. You don't remember when you started using her like a pillow, but she doesn't seem to mind and you're too tired to move.

"Yes, Rachel?" she hums.

Santana glances over at the both of you with a loving smile then turns back to Puck and continues their conversation about his newest video game. You're beginning to see why they're friends. She puts up with what no one else ever could.

"Are you okay?" you ask Brittany, and she pulls you closer into her side.

It takes her awhile to reply, and you wonder if maybe she's going to ignore you. But then she speaks and it gives you even more to think about. "No, Rachel. But I'm good at pretending. So I'll be okay."


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: Regarding Quinn's condition, I'm not sure how dark I want to take this, so let me know if you want painfully harrowing or something less awful. I do have a good idea where I want to go, but to what degree is still up for debate. Sorry for the wait between updates.**

**(/)**

"I want to see Quinn. Everyone else has already gone and I'm her best friend, so it's only fair." Santana drops the bomb after you've opened your fortune cookies and she sucks all the noise out of the room save the sickly-skinny woman on TV peddling weight-loss products.

_Your cookie breaks apart easily and the paper falls into your lap. "You can open doors with a combination of charm and patience." It isn't a fortune, nor is it new information. Puck's tells him now's the time to finish up old tasks, Santana's says now's the time to try something new, and Brittany's informs her she's talented with her hands (to which Santana agrees wholeheartedly). Normally you'd call and complain that you can't advertise fortune cookies without involving a proper fortune, but you settle for ripping the little strip of paper into shreds. _

"Rachel? You spaced," Santana says as she waves a hand in front of your face.

You blink and swat her away, frowning. "Quinn'll be out in two days. Can't you wait?"

"She's only going to disappoint you, Santana. She's not okay," Puck adds.

"I'd never forgive myself if I didn't go," Santana says, and no one wants to argue so Puck grudgingly agrees to take her to the hospital. He's very clear that he'll wait in the lobby and you don't blame him. Seeing Quinn dwarfed by that massive bed and her emotional turmoil is too much to handle.

They leave soon after and you watch through the window, ignoring the tug in your heart that keeps saying you should've stopped Santana from going. Puck's little car disappears around a corner and you remain motionless at the picture window until Brittany leads you back to the couch. She says you're sick and your protests are cut short by a hacking cough. Her smirk finally breaks through your daze and you give her a playful shove, sending her into the pillows.

"Rachel!" she shrieks as she dives at your mid-section to tickle you in retort.

The electric shock of her fingers catches you in that painful mix of laughter and frustration as she won't leave you to breathe. You call her name in gasps, trying to get her to back off, but she enjoys your discomfort and tickles you until you wriggle your hands up her cheerleading top to get back at her. She isn't wearing a bra. You immediately pull back as you graze the soft skin of her chest and she jumps to the other end of the couch.

"I am so sorry," you fumble, twisting your shirt back into place. "I didn't mean to—I'm sorry."

Brittany's wide eyes meet yours as she lets a flustered smile dance onto her lips. "It's okay; everyone gropes me at some point. Actually, I'm sort of surprised it didn't happen sooner. If I'd known you were so hot, I would've already added you to my notches."

The sinking feeling in your stomach returns now, reminding you of the little teddy bear that sat on the bed so close to her scoreboard. "Brittany," you start, stretching your leg to toe her side. She gives you a grin and a nod as you continue. "Why do you feel you need to sleep around?"

"Oh," she says as a parade of conflicting emotions flash through her eyes. For a moment you can see a hint of truth but she shuts it away as fast as it appears. "Oh, I don't know… I guess… You don't upset anyone if you never say no."

"But doesn't it bother you, all these people forcing intimacy upon you?" you press, frowning at her blank expression.

Brittany bows her head and wraps her fingers around a tassel on one of the cushions. "Well it's like… It's not really my body to begin with, so if it makes other people feel better, it doesn't matter what I… what I feel."

"Did something happen to you?" You reach out to put a hand on her, but she shies away and presses herself further into the side of the couch.

"No," she says quickly.

She falls silent. You fall silent. Her gaze travels to the blank TV, then back to you, and maybe she's wondering why you've been watching so many infomercials, or maybe she's trying to avoid a thought that won't leave her alone. She frowns at the floor, her eyes sad and void of anything to convince you she's fine. You never wanted to see Brittany like this; it's painful. The girl who's normally so bubbly and excited has now deflated to just a shadow of who she's supposed to be.

"Brittany," you say softly, scooting closer so she can't escape. "Did something happen?"

When she speaks, her small voice rivals that all-too familiar China doll sound. "Not even Santana knows. I wanted to tell her, but… I just never knew how."

"What happened, Brittany?" you murmur.

She worries her lip through her teeth, forcing those carefully placed walls to crumble, and her baby blue eyes blink away the threat of tears. "I was thirteen. My dad lost his job and that's when my sister, Jess, got really sick. We couldn't afford all the hospital bills; couldn't pay the mortgage. We were going to lose the house. I was too young to get a job, but my uncle said I could make a lot of money by doing something nice for his friend."

Brittany shakes her head softly and tilts her face up to the ceiling to avoid looking you in the eye. She's ashamed of what she's telling you, but she also seems to be relieved to finally release this secret into the atmosphere. She clears her throat and continues.

"He said every girl lost it at some point and not everyone was lucky enough to get paid. I made ten thousand the first time; he was a really important guy. My uncle had other friends. He helped me slip the money into my parents' bank account and then my sister got better and we didn't lose the house. It was never anything special; it was something I could do for my baby sis. And now it's something I can do to make other people feel better," she says as her voice cracks.

You swallow the lump in your throat and whisper, "But does it make you feel better?"

"Is it supposed to?" she asks quietly.

"Yes, Brittany. It's supposed to make you feel amazing," you say with tears in your eyes.

"Santana makes me feel amazing," she mumbles with a smile. "She could just look at me and I'd still feel amazing. I love her."

"And she loves you." Your throat aches from trying not to cry, but you're afraid of saying or doing anything wrong now that Brittany's admitted this huge secret. You don't want to hurt her.

"She loves you too," she says. Her hands leave the cushion and drift to you, an arm wrapping around your waist.

"But not like she loves you, Brit. Santana's madly in love with you," you say with a chuckle.

Brittany grins and pulls you into a hug. "Yeah, yeah. She's my lady. My family," she sings. "But you can be my family too, if you want. Mine and Santana's."

"And Lucas?" you say, smiling.

"Of course," she giggles. "Santana and I can be the moms, and you and Lucas can be the kids. We'll be the hottest family ever."

It's the sweetest thing you've heard in ages, but your happiness fades when you notice the both of you have casually left Quinn out of the picture. And when you try to write her in, the guilt is overwhelming when you find you don't want her there. At least not this Quinn. Not when even the thought of her empty hazel eyes is enough to make you want to burst into tears.

(/)

Santana stumbles through the front door with a loud groan, tossing her jacket onto the coat rack before joining Brittany and you on the couch. You let out a small growl as she lands half on top of you. Her elbow digs hard into your ribs and you shove her away, but she rolls over and buries her face in your neck instead of moving off of you. As she groans again, the hard scent of liquor washes over you: she's been drinking.

"Santana," you say, wrinkling your nose as her breath hits your face. "Why do you smell worse than my alcoholic aunt at family gatherings?"

Brittany, who's been sleeping on the other end of the couch while you watched infomercials, stirs slightly and buries herself deeper in the pile of pillows.

Santana lifts her head and smiles at her girlfriend. "I always want to sing to her, when she's asleep. She looks like a baby."

"Why were you drinking?" you ask.

"I'm not drunk," she insists, rolling off of you and forcing herself to sit up. Her eyes are bloodshot and she has a patch of red on her neck. She guides your hand away as you reach out to touch the hickey. "It was Puck's idea, after the hospital… He thought it might help."

"Did you sleep with him?" you ask and she shakes her head. "What happened at the hospital?"

Santana scrunches up her face in discomfort and threads her fingers with yours, sinking backwards into the couch. "Quinn yelled at me for coming to see her then refused to talk to me and I just wanted her to be okay, but… She threw her goddamn tray at me. Lucky I excelled in dodgeball."

It's painful to hear about the girl that's replaced Quinn. Each new recount makes you want to give up on her completely—and it's only been two days. You're terrified of seeing her again. You're terrified she'll never return to the beautiful, loving girl you were falling for.

"Fuck," you mumble, wishing you could muster up some anger to accompany the word.

"Puck took me to the liquor store where his cousin works and we downed a couple bottles in the parking lot. I'm a trashy mess," she says while rubbing at the hickey. "I should've been here with my girlfriend. And you. I should've been here with you, but I needed to see Quinn for myself. We're going to be all she has when she gets out."

"Her parents," you start, but Santana smacks a hand over your mouth.

"Daddy Douchebag Fabray just signed the lease on an apartment in the city."

"He left?" you mumble against her palm.

"He told Judy he couldn't do it anymore and I just want to kill him because it's not like Quinn meant for this to happen. What kind of asshole walks out twice?" Santana makes a fist but quickly drops it when she glances at Brittany. "So I promised Judy we'd do everything to help Quinn."

Guilt floods you when you think of how much you'd rather join Russell Fabray in the city. The selflessness with which Santana promised herself to Quinn only further supports your notion that you're the worst girlfriend in the world, knowing how quickly you'd run if you could. But you'll stay; you'll be there for Quinn, because somewhere under all this throwing and yelling is the same girl who whispered sweet nothings into your hair as the sun crept over the horizon.

(/)

While Santana makes some sort of rice dish for dinner, completely emptying the cupboards, you dig out your cell phone from your coat pocket and debate what you should do about the forty-eight missed calls and texts. They're mostly from your fathers. Two are from Finn, apologizing for being such a dick lately, but you get these almost like clockwork when he starts another quest to win you back. You assume your fathers are going ballistic in your absence, and maybe you could've called them at some point, but it feels good in a sick way to make them worry. At least it means they care.

Santana joins you at the kitchen table, the rice boiling, and takes your phone from your hands. As she scrolls through the messages, she mutters under her breath in Spanish. "Jesus," she whistles, meeting your eyes. "You're going to be in deep shit when you go home."

"Is it bad I don't even care?" You motion for your phone and she tosses it to you with a smirk.

"Probably. But if it'd been Brittany in Quinn's place, I'd be in east Lima, slowly turning into my mom." She stands to check on the rice. "Call your parents before we go to bed, okay? I'm afraid if I don't insist, they'll strangle me with a feather boa."

You laugh, but it's hollow in your throat. "I'll call them. Does this mean I'm spending the night again?"

Santana turns, a wooden spoon in her hand. "Brittany's gotta go home as soon as she wakes up and my dad won't be home tonight. I really don't want to be alone."

"Okay," you say with a sad smile. After what seems like forever, she sits down and you speak again. "Santana, where _is_ your dad?"

"He works." She's back at the pot of rice, stirring and adding spices.

"Yeah, but—"

"He works a lot. He takes extra hours whenever he can. He wants to work a lot. He wants to forget about this mess." She swoops an arm around the kitchen. "He wants to forget about me."

She doesn't sound sad when she says this; her voice his calm and matter-of-fact. It's almost painful to watch her take a small breath of air and bow her head before she squares her shoulders and reaches for the pepper. There's so much behind the mask she wears every day in public. You think back to before she followed you out of the music room, to when her scowl was only interrupted by the smirk that accompanied her snide remarks. Even when you thought you hated her, she was still carrying these secrets like weights around her ankles. If your time with her has taught you anything, it's that there's more to everyone than they'd ever dare let on.

You don't mean to leave the table, but soon you're behind Santana, hugging her. "I'll stay as long as you need me. Because I sort of need you too."

You're not sure when it happened, but somewhere after Santana tucked you under her wing, you became dependant on her motherly tendencies and caring motions. She knows how to take care of you. She's the first person, minus Quinn, who's actually willingly taken care of you.

"Okay, Rachel," she says in a voice as soft as the first snowfall. Relaxing into the hug, she smiles and you swear you can feel it. "I may need to glue you to my side for the rest of our lives."

"That would make for some awkward bedroom moments with Brittany," you kid, and she laughs.

"That was funny," she says, still chuckling. "You made a joke."

It's nice to hear her laughing. "Well I am good for more than just the occasional ballad."

"Yes you are, Rach," she tells you as she puts a hand over yours. You are a really good friend."

"Are we friends?" you ask, hoping she won't take this moment to shoot you down.

Santana laughs again and gives you a squeeze. "Of course. Well, you're more like family."

"Really?" Your eyes widen.

"Yes!" She wiggles playfully in your arms. "Rachel, you're like my sister now. Even though I used to think you were really annoying, I know now that it was just a front to keep people out. Even if _you_ didn't know it. You're just as scared as me."


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note: It's not the longest chapter, but it took me a long time to write simply because I felt the part with Quinn had to be handled a certain way and it kept going awry. Enjoy. xx**

**(/)**

Quinn's released on Saturday. Judy calls you the moment they're home, but you hold the phone in your hands until her name disappears from the screen and you have one new voicemail. Since you've come home from Santana's house, you can't be bothered with the outer world. In fact, you haven't even left your bed (except to sit on the toilet with your head in your hands), worrying both your fathers. But they don't ask to talk to you; they remain in their bedroom and every so often you catch bits of their hushed conversations.

"-Shutting herself away-"

"-Trying to avoid…"

"-Too young to fall apart."

Your phone won't stop ringing. Every time it's Santana's name you click ignore, but Brittany makes you hesitate, watching the bright screen carefully until she leaves a message. Puck doesn't call; he sends short texts with sweet messages, all asking you to talk. He wasn't even this nice to you when you dated him.

Santana calls again, you press ignore, and in a moment of blind frustration you hurl your phone at the wall. It's quiet. You burrow deep under the blankets and pray for sleep.

(/)

At 2pm (you see the clock before anything else), your bedroom door opens with a slam and the blankets are ripped off of you. Santana stands at the foot of the bed with a thinly-disguised look of pity on her face and as soon as you growl at her, she yanks you upright.

"I don't leave thirty damn messages for just anyone, Berry," she says as she combs your hair with her fingers, gently teasing out the tangles. "You could've at least picked up."

You yawn and blink at her while she traces a pillow crease on your cheek. It isn't important, but you feel you should tell her that her hair looks nice in a messy bun. The loose strands framing her face make her look like a starlet after a party. She frowns at you, her hands cupping your face, and you scrunch on your nose until the room blurs and your eyes close.

"I was calling for a reason, you know. Judy asked me to—"

"To beg me to go visit my girlfriend?" You squirm away from her and hop off the bed, retrieving your phone from the floor. The screen's black but you don't care.

Santana sighs and sinks onto the bed, and you notice she's wearing pyjamas under her sweatshirt. "Rachel… She really wants to see you. No one else; just you. Judy says she's a lot better than when you last saw her. Will you just… please?"

"Mm. Fine," you say with a frown.

Santana's eyes light up and she jumps to hug you. "Yes! Puck's waiting outside in his car. You gonna get changed, or are you gonna grace her with this grungy getup?"

You glance down at your dad's old gym shirt. "As much as I enjoy being pantsless, I think I'll toss on something to match your evening gown."

She snorts and gives you a push before pulling you into an embrace. Every time her arms are around you, now, you can sink into her and forget about everything else. She gives you that sweet moment of peace you've so desperately been craving. And in this world, with the people who completely disappear inside themselves whenever something goes wrong, it's nice to know Santana can let you escape. Even for those thirty seconds of a hug. She's saving you from disappearing, yourself.

(/)

The heavy oak door at the Fabray residence is the same door you've knocked upon countless times. It's the same door you were pushed up against in a moment of passion, when Quinn's lips captured yours as she slipped her arms around your waist. The cement steps leading up to the house will always remind you of that night you spent sitting in her lap, watching the stars poke holes in the night sky. And now, clutching Santana's hand so tight her knuckles are turning white, standing on these grey steps, all the memories slither away and leave you only with the fear of which version of Quinn awaits you on the other side.

"It'll be okay, Rachel," Santana says as the door opens, revealing a frazzled and flustered Judy, who ushers you inside with a relieved smile.

"Quinn's been in her room since we got home," Judy says with a sigh, motioning up the stairs. "She just kept asking for you, Rachel, and I know this is so hard but I just kept thinking maybe you can bring her back to normal. God knows you've kept her sane."

Maybe you provided her with a safe space before, when her family and regrets were becoming too much, but you're not sure how much help you can be now. This is bigger than you. This is bigger than any of you could have ever imagined.

You swallow hard.

"I thought I could help you with the chores, Judy, while Rachel's with Quinn." Santana tugs her sweatshirt down further over her pyjama bottoms and offers a friendly smile, countering Judy's quiet protests. "I'm really handy with a vacuum."

"Yeah, she sucks," you say lightly, and are met with a moment of awkward silence before the pun falls into their awareness. Judy laughs a little too loud and you wish you had it in you to be anything but quiet.

A voice drifts down the stairs. "Mom?" Quinn sounds so small, so fragile, but underneath that is a hint of the girl she used to be. Maybe she won't be broken forever, you think. You hope.

Judy opens her mouth and glances towards you before calling back up to her daughter. "Rachel's here, sweetie."

"Rachel?" It's so heartbreakingly hopeful and there's definitely a smile in her voice that brings tears to your eyes.

"I'm coming up, Quinn. I just have to hang my coat—" Santana rips your jacket off you before you can even finish your sentence. "—first. I'll be right up."

Santana gives your bum a quick pat then heads to the kitchen with Judy, leaving you to make your way to the second floor. You take the stairs two at a time, brushing away the bristles of fear, and Quinn meets you at the top with a crushing hug. When she pulls back, you try to see the similarities to Quinn before but you're only met with the differences. You never thought she'd be this different.

She's physically smaller from weight loss, but she seems heavier as if her burdens weigh her down more than her dreams ever could. Dark purple and green bruises adorn her arms, shaped like someone's tough grasp and laced with struggle. You're thankful she's wearing sweatpants because you're not ready to see her legs scarred and mangled from hours of crawling along rough pavement. Her hazel eyes widen at you and the careful wall that had been there before is now strengthened by something much darker, startling you. She's ghostlike now, her conscious hovering slightly above this world. She flickers in and out of your steady gaze.

Amongst all this painful chaos, a small glowing ember pokes out from the pile of ash she's become. It puffs a little brighter as she smiles and you see what you've been looking for: her beauty shining through. She hasn't lost her beautiful soul.

"Quinn," you say, stepping forward and grabbing her hands, doing your best to ignore her scabby palms. "You look as gorgeous as ever. It's so good to see you home."

Her smile grows wider and fear slips away from her eyes as she blushes, gazing at you from behind dark lashes. "Thank-you, Rachel," she says slowly and carefully, like her words might betray her if she loses focus. With a dip of her head, she asks you if you want to go to her room and when you nod enthusiastically, she seems to relax into leading you down the hall.

Your immediate reaction upon entering her familiar pink and white bedroom is to take a seat at the end of her bed, exactly where you'd planted yourself every other time you'd been in here. It's only after Quinn pauses near the wall, which is devoid of its usual photos and bright posters, do you question if you've done something wrong.

"Lie down," she tells you in a firm voice. When you don't comply, she repeats herself. "Rachel Berry, lie down."

Something in the way she says it has you scrambling to lie down quickly, your head on a fluffy white pillow. "Better?" you ask.

She gives you a demure smile and crawls onto the bed until she's straddling you, her legs pinning you in place. Before you can speak her lips catch yours and she's desperately tugging at your shirt. Leaving a light trail of kisses down your collarbone, she repositions herself and removes your shirt with a smirk of triumph. Your mind catches up with the situation but her mouth is on yours again before you can tell her to stop.

"Quinn," you squeak out while she takes a breath. "Please. Don't."

Her eyes cloud over with a medley of pain and disappointment, causing you to feel guilty. "I need this, Rachel. After everything I've been through, don't you think I deserve this?"

"Yes, but—"

"But what?" she snaps.

You want to tell her she's not ready for this just yet, that maybe she should wait until she's better, but her anger silences you and for the first time, you're afraid of her. Even when she had her followers dump slushies on you and her whole world revolved around putting you down, you were never afraid of her. Quinn was never scary, until now. And you're at a loss as to what you should do.

She answers this for you by taking off your bra and attacking the tender skin with a mixture of teeth and tongue, sending waves of heat throughout your body. You're fine letting her do whatever to you until a foreign wet substance pools on your chest and you're praying to God it isn't blood, but it's not. It's tears.

Quinn's crying.

Sitting up carefully, you pull her into a hug and stroke her hair while she sobs into your skin. Listening to her cry is like pouring acid into paper cuts. You need to fill the air with something else, and you haven't been able to sing since this whole thing started, but a song slips out your lips anyway.

_When you curse your name, I'm a receiver. _

_When your heart can't change, I'm a receipt. _

_Do I look like a stranger?_

_The world keeps getting stranger all the time._

_And the distance is greater _

_than any rope I ever tied around your waist _

_to keep our tumbles in rhythm… _

Once you finish the song, she nestles deeper into your arms and waits for you to keep going. You dig into your repertoire and start to sing a second.

_You gave your body to the lonely._

_They took your clothes. _

_You gave up a wife and a family._

_You gave your ghost_

_To be alone with me…_

_To be alone with me… _

Your unrehearsed voice acts as a soothing lullaby that nurses Quinn into a half-asleep daze. She's calm now, in your arms. Maybe you can still be her safe space. If she'll let you, that is; if she'll give that control over to you once more.

As the last few notes of your last song fade into the bedspread, Quinn tilts her head and stares into your eyes with all her walls down. The endless feathery swirls of green and brown regard you with unabashed curiosity as if she's trying to place you. You thumb her cheek and she smiles, moving so her lips can place a soft kiss on your fingers.

You're not an enemy. You're on her side.

(/)

In the car on the drive home, you're quiet. Santana keeps running a hand up and down your arm, every so often glancing over at you, but she doesn't ask questions so you don't reply. After what must seem to him like forever, Puck clears his throat and speaks.

"How is she?" The tenderness in his voice tells you he still loves her, even a year later. You didn't understand it then but you do now.

"She cried, but crying's better than screaming," you reply. Crying's better than dry sobs, better than throwing things, better than silence…

Santana rests her hand on your leg and leans closer to you. She's exhausted. "Judy cried too. I finished vacuuming and we heard you singing, and Judy just burst into tears. She nearly knocked over a lamp, she was crying so hard. She was so happy to hear you sing, Rachel."

Your heart swells at this and you wish you'd done more than just hug Judy before you left.

"I bet you cried too, Lopez," Puck says with a teasing smile.

Instead of attacking him, she shrugs. "Maybe I did. It was beautiful." She sinks into your shoulder and drapes an arm over your stomach, fully relaxing into you. "I bet Quinn really loved hearing your gorgeous voice again, Rach. I know I did. It's been missed."

"I—thank-you," you say, at a loss for words. Running your fingers through Santana's dark hair, you're once again struck with the sheer oddity of how close you've all become. It'll never cease to amaze you, being allowed in Santana's inner circle. Being _trusted_ by her.

"Mm," she replies as she shuts her eyes. She must have really done a lot of cleaning while at the Fabray residence; she's asleep within minutes.

You're content to just fall asleep yourself until Puck catches your eye in the mirror. He has something to say.

"Hey Rachel," he starts, and then pauses to take a breath. "I really wish we'd become friends, after we broke up. You're a good person. You're amazing, actually; especially with all this Quinn stuff. I wouldn't know what to do if I were you. Quinn's really lucky she has you."

At first you think you're dreaming, but then it sinks in and you feel like crying. "Thank-you, Noah. I… You really have me speechless. I have no idea what I'm doing, but it seems to be okay for now, so. I'll just; I guess I'll keep doing it." You pause and glance down at Santana, who's using your arm as a teddy bear. "We can be friends now, if you want. You don't have to if you don't want to, but you can never have too many friends, or so I've heard, so we could be… if you want… we could be friends."

He beams at you through the rearview mirror and for once you feel a little less lost. "I'd like to be friends, Rachel. Santana tells me you're a good person to have as a friend."

"I am?" A shiver of happiness runs through you.

"Santana doesn't lie," he says. "If she likes someone, then she's pretty vocal about it."

"Oh," you say, smiling.

"I hope you know what you're getting into, with her. She plans on keeping you around for a long time. And she's really hard to get rid of," he says with a chuckle.

You laugh too, knowing just how true that is. After a moment, you regard him with subtle inquiry. "Noah, how long have you two been friends?"

"Since first grade, when she punched me so hard she broke my nose. She was pissed at me for sitting in Brittany's seat. I knew any girl that bad-ass had to be my friend." He snorts and glances back at her as she stirs slightly. "I followed her around for weeks after that, until she finally let me sit with her—only after I gave her my cupcake. Ten years later and she still expects me to give her my cupcakes."

"Do you?" you ask, grinning at his story.

"Of course! I don't want another broken nose. Santana's vicious," he says with a laugh.

Santana opens her eyes at this and lets out a growl. "Watch it, Puckerman. I still have you whipped."

"Forever and always, babe."

**(/)**

**Author's note: The first song is _Rhythm_ by Page France, the second song is _To Be Alone With You_ by Sufjan Stevens.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note: I am _awful_ at updating... I apologize. This chapter's a little longer than usual (which totally doesn't make up for it, but I tried) and I'll definitely be updating more frequently now that I've found my way back into this story's groove, so I hope you haven't all given up on me. Feel free to review and thank-you all for your patience. xx**

**(/)**

Something akin to a whisper brushes across your consciousness as the digital hum of your alarm clock switches to 4am. The soft melodies of early Sunday morning nestle their way into your thoughts and with a low murmur, you open your eyes to a flushed violet sky.

It's only after you've pulled a baggy t-shirt over a pair of bicycle shorts do you realize why you've woken up: in your yard, sitting sweetly under the cherry tree in a white nightgown, is a beautiful blonde angel you thought was lost forever.

You pause with your hands on the glass of the window for what seems like ages, watching Quinn stare up at the cherry blossoms, until she turns and her eye catches yours.

She mouths your name and you give her a tiny wave before tiptoeing past your dads' bedroom and downstairs to the back door. Quinn meets you with a hug.

"The sun isn't even up yet," you whisper into her hair, wondering why 4am begs for pulsing silence.

She pulls away and fiddles with the cross around her neck. "It's the best time though, isn't it? Too light for nightmares but dark enough to see stars."

Though you desperately want to, asking about her nightmares doesn't seem appropriate for the hush that's fallen over the town so you give her a nod instead. Her hazel eyes flash with the beginning of a smile.

"Besides," she continues, "I thought it was the best time to take a walk. With you."

(/)

The sidewalk is cold under your bare feet (you'd forgotten shoes as you slipped out the house in your haste to see her) but Quinn's hand is warm in yours and it makes up for any chill from the concrete.

She says nothing and you echo her, listening to the birds begin their morning songs and the cicadas hum along to a rhythm you can't quite make out.

It's been weeks since she was last outside your window and after she went missing you thought it would never happen again, that she was too damaged, but it really is her hand in yours and her footfalls that match your pace exactly. As her hip gives you a soft bump, tears threaten to spill through your lashes while you give her that smile that's only ever been hers. She smiles back.

The streetlamps lead you along to the park where a lone squirrel perches in the middle of the merry-go-round, eyeing you with that neurotic curiosity you yourself once had for this world. He scampers off as you draw nearer, giving the both of you a wide berth as he darts up a tree to hide from the monsters – from you; from Quinn.

Quinn settles on a swing that hovers above rainwater collecting in the sand, careful not to get her feet wet. Toes already muddy from the walk through the grass, you splash in the puddle under the second swing and a grin crosses your face as she chuckles.

She speaks as soon as you sit.

"Everything's going to scar," she whispers to the ground, looking up at the last second to catch your eye. Her gaze is cold.

You swallow the urge to hug her in case she turns on you and settle for resting a hand on her thigh – well above any wounds she might have from crawling along the highway. It still sickens you to think about it.

"Scars will still look beautiful on you," you say. "Everything looks beautiful on you."

When she meets your eyes the second time, your blood runs cold.

"That's not what I meant," she says icily.

"What did you mean then?" you say because she waits for you to ask.

Quinn pushes off the ground and starts swinging – slowly at first, but she works her way up to a speeding pendulum and you count the minutes it takes for her to reply in the back-and-forth motion of her swing.

"I mean I'm fucked up inside," she nearly screams, slowing down just enough so she can jump.

When she lands in the sand with a thump and a squeal of laughter, you bite back an _are you okay_ in case she tells you she isn't and you know she isn't, but it has nothing to do with landing too hard on her ankle. If you avoid _okay_ she won't have to avoid telling you why she isn't and both of you can sit in the forged calm.

She starts walking away from you at a pace that forces you to jog to catch up to her and her hand reaches out for yours the second you fall into her rhythm.

"I know you have questions, Rachel," she says softly as you pass through a cluster of pine trees.

"I-"

"Out of everyone, you're the first person I'd tell if I could." Her hand leaves yours and the emptiness only fazes you for a heartbeat until she loops an arm around your waist. "But I can't. Not yet."

"I can wait," you reply, relieved to be able to lean into her without her flinching and pulling away – or worse, jumping you right here in the park.

"I wish I'd just stayed home that night," she says under her breath, washing you over with guilt.

If she hadn't come to see you, she wouldn't have been out when that monster-

Quinn stops suddenly, pulling you close enough for her lips to brush across your forehead. "You know it's not your fault, right?" she practically begs, planting the sweetest kiss on your skin. "It's not your fault."

"It's not yours either, Quinn," you exhale and she inhales the words like oxygen.

(/)

The sun pokes its way through a ruffle of clouds adorning the edges of the sky as Quinn takes you through neighbourhoods you'd never seen before. The houses are all quiet and dark inside, still sleeping off Saturday's exhaustion.

"Are you going to church today?" you ask her, pausing with her at the entrance of the cemetery.

She walks in slowly, eyes focused on names she doesn't recognize. "I'd rather believe in you instead."

You follow her up the paths and across the dewy grass; over patches of dirt waiting to be seeded and around graves waiting to be marked. She isn't afraid of the superstitions in here. Her feet fall firmly six feet above corpses and her eyes are light with peace.

"I don't know what you mean," you breathe as she leads you up a hill. "You aren't going to church then?"

You'd always supported her beliefs because they seemed to keep her going, despite your own beliefs conflicting with the book she held so dearly to her chest. She wasn't someone to just abandon the path she'd been taking since brought into this world and her sudden change of direction knocks the air out of your lungs for a moment.

"What's the point? No one's listening," she says. Stopping at the top of the hill, near an angel statue that seems to take up the whole sky, she folds her arms across her chest and looks around triumphantly. "But here… they're listening here. Not up there, but in the ground."

You glance down at the rows of gravestones. They seem quiet to you.

"Quinn?"

"I begged for Him to save me and He never came." She wraps her fingers around the edge of the angel's wing and sinks onto the base of the statue. "I thought I was being punished for Beth, for giving her away or something, but… It didn't come down to deserving His help. He just wasn't there."

At a loss for words, you sit down next to her, the marble cold on your bare thighs, and drape an arm loosely around her shoulders. She doesn't shy away from the touch; she leans into you and continues speaking.

"I don't know what I believe anymore, but I know I'm not going to suffer through three hours of bullshit sermons and pretend like it means more than it does." Quinn's eyes flick to yours and she gives you the saddest smile that's ever graced her face. "After the second day, I started praying to you."

(/)

Quinn walks you to your back door and leaves after a hug, drifting silently through the grass and around the side of your house until the sleepy streets envelop her. After you've snuck back inside and are tucked soundly in your bed, your eyes close and you wonder if you dreamt the whole thing.

(/)

A pillow flies into your head, alerting you to the sun streaming in through parted curtains and the giggling blonde sitting on the end of your bed, next to your favourite brunette.

"Morning, sunshine," Brittany says with a smile.

You sit up slowly, blindly reaching for a pillow to toss back in her direction. Santana catches it before it does any damage and sends it back at you. Again, it smacks you in the face.

"What time is it?" you ask, blinking away the haze of your last dream.

"After lunch. Puck's making tacos back at my place," Santana informs you. "We thought you should join us. He has one of your gross tofu meat things so you don't have to go against your beliefs."

Beliefs. The morning comes flooding back with a tickle of angel wings against your heart and you wonder how Quinn's doing now that the day's started.

"You can't say no," Brittany says solemnly.

"Can I get dressed first?" you ask, peeling back the covers to find you're still in the bicycle shorts and large tee from this morning.

Brittany nods. "Please do. We'll be outside in the car."

There's a soft flicker of concern in Santana's eyes as she meets your gaze but she says nothing, calmly taking her girlfriend's hand in her own and leaving you to get ready.

As you stand alone in your closet, rifling through short skirts and sweaters your grandmother had lovingly knit for you, you feel the ghost of Quinn's lips on your forehead and remember how broken she'd looked that morning.

You vow to stop by later that day, just to make sure she hasn't yet collapsed into herself.

(/)

Santana waits until you're seated on the couch, feet tucked under you and a vegan taco in your hands, before pulling you into a one-armed side-hug and whispering that Judy called her earlier, to say Quinn wandered home with your name on her lips.

"Judy said Q was smiling," Santana hums into your shoulder, pulling away to look at your facial expression.

You grin. "She took me for a walk this morning."

"Is that some lesbian slang for sex?" Puck asks, perking up at the thought. Brittany slugs him as she walks into the living room, giving him a stern frown before plopping herself in his lap.

"No," she says.

"We took a walk," you say slowly, rolling your eyes. But you're still smiling – this is so _Puck_ that you feel like laughing. You're glad to see some things have remained unaffected by the turmoil.

"But if it was slang, you'd give us the steamy deets?" he presses, shifting Brittany so he can meet your eyes. He's joking.

You snort. "Of course, Noah. I'd tell you all about what Quinn and I did in the bedroom because that's the sort of friend I am."

At this, Santana raises her eyebrows.

"No, San," Brittany warns. Santana droops.

"You have your own hot girlfriend," you remind her.

"Of course I do," she says with a smirk. "The hottest in all of Ohio. But that doesn't mean I don't have a soft spot for a ridiculously short Jewish diva and her equally attractive blonde girlfriend."

There's a moment of silence as you marvel at the compliment and Puck drifts off into a probable fantasy involving the four of you girls in his bedroom. Brittany breaks the hush with a cough and drags the conversation back to where it started.

"How was the walk?" she asks. She's really asking how Quinn is, but you're not quite sure how to answer that.

"We ended up at the cemetery," you reply, remembering the cool stone under your legs as Quinn melted into the angel. "The one near her church."

"San's abuela is buried there," Brittany says softly and gives a comforting smile to her girlfriend. "We visit a lot, especially around Christmas."

Santana squirms next to you on the couch, frowning at her hands. She mutters something so quiet you almost don't hear it, but the words _and the baby_ drift towards you and you put a hand on the small of her back. She looks at you with a mixture of shame and relief, and suddenly you feel the emptiness of how little you truly know about her.

"It's beautiful around Christmas," Puck says, taking the attention off of Santana. She relaxes into your side.

"Quinn's not going to church anymore," you murmur.

Three sets of eyes flick to you.

"I guess I understand," Santana replies. Brittany nods. "I can't say I'd want to go back after going through something like that. Not that I've ever believed in the church anyway, but that's not important."

"You used to pray," Brittany mumbles, stealing some shredded lettuce from Puck's taco.

He frowns and holds the plate out to his side so she won't steal anything else.

"Yeah, well, it didn't get me very far," Santana retorts. Her cheeks are slightly flushed and she shifts away from you, putting up a wall you've never before encountered. It's mildly disconcerting.

"I prayed for Finn to stop stepping on my feet every damn routine, but the big guy upstairs wasn't listening," Puck jokes, relenting as Brittany leans across him to steal more of his taco.

"We've all prayed for that," you say with a smirk.

Brittany swallows her stolen mouthful and grimaces. "I didn't know it was possible for someone to be _that_ bad at dancing. Like, the little kids I teach at the community centre have a better sense of rhythm than Finn."

"He's just as bad at sex," Santana groans.

Heat rises to your cheeks. "I wouldn't know."

"Wait, you and Finn never…" Puck eyes you with an intense curiosity, peering around Brittany.

You shake your head.

"But he told me you did," he replies, frowning.

"He _what_?"

Puck nods, handing the taco to Brittany. "He said it was better than with Santana and he didn't even have to buy you food afterwards."

"What a fucking liar," Santana says with a scowl.

"I know. I never slept with him," you say curtly.

She shoots you a side-glance. "I was talking about you being better than me. There's no way in hell I could be out-sexed. I'm great in bed. Ask anyone."

Brittany grins and nods furiously. Puck licks his lips in agreement.

"Who says I'm not great in bed as well?" you spit back. "For all you know, I could be ten times better than you. And no one has to buy me food afterwards, Santana, because I don't throw myself around like a common street-walker."

Venom infests her dark eyes and her back stiffens as she turns to face you.

Brittany shrinks into Puck.

"I am not a whore," Santana seethes, her eyes narrowing into slits.

"That's not what I've heard," you say with a sneer.

You're not sure who rises first but suddenly her hands are yanking on your hair and your elbow finds its way into her ribs and the both of you fall to the floor in a mess of tugs and punches and flailing limbs. She rolls on top of you, straddling you as you push up against her, trying to escape her tight grasp. Then you flip her over and pin her to the carpet, growling and digging your nails into the skin of her wrists.

"You're such a fucking bitch," she cries out, determined not to let you win.

You feel blood from where you've been scratching at her but she doesn't bat an eye, simply kicking until you're flung off of her and then she's back on top of you.

"At least I'm not a dirty skank!" you bark.

"You're fucking Quinn Fabray," she spits, her face inches away from yours. "And we all know she likes 'em trashy."

From the armchair, Puck starts to say something in protest, but he's quickly silenced by Brittany.

"We'll see how trashy I can be when I rip out your weave!" you shout, hands buried in her hair.

She practically screeches as she collapses on top of you, scrambling to protect her precious weave. You notice before she does that her lips are dangerously close to yours and before you can move, you're trapped in a kiss as feverish as the entire fight.

Her lips taste like cinnamon.

Brittany calls out something you don't quite catch and Puck mumbles something in reply, but neither makes a move to interrupt you and Santana. In fact, you feel them watching in fascination as Santana's grip loosens on your neck and she slips her tongue into your mouth, exploring.

You break the kiss first.

"What?" you exhale as you shut your eyes, trying to understand what the hell just happened.

Santana blinks and rolls off of you, leaning against the couch. She opens her mouth a few times but nothing comes out.

"That was hot," Brittany breathes. Puck nods vigorously.

"That was…" You aren't sure how to continue, but Santana stares at your mouth and nods slowly.

"Mhm," she mumbles.

With a sudden burst of energy, you push yourself up off the floor and shoot out of the room, heading to the kitchen. The taco preparation station greets you from the table, dripping onto the chairs, so you come to rest in front of the sink and press your hips into the counter, sighing deeply.

Santana comes up behind you.

"I don't know what that was," she says quietly, keeping a safe distance from you.

You're not sure who made the first move so you don't know if you should apologize, but you want to anyway. Before you can say anything, she continues speaking.

"It didn't mean anything. Or… it didn't mean anything that could threaten your relationship with Q and my relationship with Britt. It was just a… a kiss. It _was_ just a kiss, right?"

As her voice breaks, you turn around to see her eyes fill with unfiltered worry and the sight nearly breaks your heart. You'd become so close to her in the past few weeks that you suppose a kiss was inevitable, given the lack of boundaries in this group, but you can't get your mouth to explain.

Instead, you nod numbly and knot your eyebrows. Santana catches the slight hesitation in your demeanour and folds her arms across her chest, hugging herself.

"If it makes a difference, I've kissed Quinn too… in almost the same situation, come to think of it," she says.

You gape. "What?"

"We were fighting and… well. Same outcome." She seems to consider what this might mean and you can practically see the gears shifting in her head, so you say it before she does.

"You're not a whore, Santana."

"Aren't I?" Her gaze shifts downwards.

"No," you nearly whisper. "I didn't mean what I said."

She looks up with a ghost of a smile on her lips and you start to relax. "I'm sure you're great in bed, Berry."

"I'm not awful," you say with a smirk.

She continues, laughing. "Maybe someday I'll find out for myself."

The tension dissipates from the room and she reaches out for your hand, offering a silent apology for whatever went down in the living room. You take it with a smile and give her a quick squeeze, following her back to the couch.

"Did you kiss and make up?" Puck asks, grinning.

"I think we did enough kissing on the floor," Santana drawls, collapsing onto the couch and pulling you with her. You land in her lap and she wraps her arms around your waist.

"I wouldn't mind seeing more," Brittany admits. "That was hot."

"Nah, Berry's more like a sister," Santana replies, resting her chin on your shoulder. "Besides, she's Quinn's girl. And I totally only did it to save my weave."

"Of course," you chuckle.

"Girl's gotta protect her 'do," Santana says with a Southern accent, which shouldn't make you laugh as much as it does.

"You're lucky she just kissed you, Rachel. I nearly lost a testicle when I accidentally took out a chunk of her weave," Puck says with a shudder.

Santana shrugs.

"I am _totally_ okay if you two want to roll around on the carpet again some time," Brittany says honestly, breaking apart the taco shell. "Or like, if you want to change it up a bit. You know, in mud or Jell-O or something that'll get you naked."

You laugh harder to cover up your slight embarrassment and turn to bury your face in Santana's shoulder. She wraps you in a hug, shaking with silent laughter at her girlfriend's admission.

"What? They're both hot."

Puck snorts. "Amen to that."


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's note: My sincerest apologies for the wait. I've had a good chunk of this chapter written for God knows how long but everything came up (if I began to explain you'd ask if I lived in a soap opera) and I unfortunately had no access to my laptop. I appreciate and adore your reviews and I'm aware the kiss came out of nowhere (and probably seems like it didn't fit - in retrospect I wish I'd written it differently, but this is a write-as-you-go piece) but it's been, in my mind, part of the story since I fully realized the plot. **

**You are all so amazing and marvelous and I want to thank you for continuing to read this. It means the world to me that people give a fuck (no matter how tiny that fuck might be). Sorry for any typos or mistakes; I try my best to find them but sometimes they slip through. xx**

**(/)**

Brittany offers to drive you home, explaining how she doesn't want to interrupt Santana and Puck's much-needed bonding via Mario Kart and a tub of Moose Tracks ice cream. When you tell her you'd rather she take you to Quinn's house, she replies with a firm nod and opens the passenger door for you before sliding into the driver's seat.

As she pulls out of the driveway and turns in the opposite direction of Quinn's street, you narrow your eyes at her and clear your throat.

"Scenic route," she says.

It's quiet for a few blocks before she turns on the heater and begins to speak in her soft lilt.

"I know it's all about Quinn, about what she went through and all that awful, awful crap, but she's not the only one who's hurt," Brittany murmurs.

You nod slowly, waiting to see where she's going with this. It's Brittany; her words will always go deeper.

The car turns into a neighbourhood of bungalows and station wagons. "We were eight when we first saw Quinn cry. I didn't think it was weird because _everybody_ cries, but Santana knew immediately that something was wrong." Brittany takes a breath. "She was crying because she spilled chocolate ice cream all over her Sunday dress. But it wasn't just crying… She was shaking. She almost threw up, she was sobbing so hard."

"Over ice cream?" you ask, but deep down you know.

Brittany's forced smile slips into a frown of remorse. "Her dad found her crying in the kitchen and picked her up by her arms, right in front of Santana and me. He was screaming so loud I thought for sure my ears were going to pop and Santana put her hands over them so it wasn't as bad, but we pretty much tried to be invisible when he whipped out his bible and started spanking her. Have you ever seen a little girl get spanked?"

The mere thought chokes your lungs and you claw at the seatbelt, desperate to breathe.

"Over ice cream," she whispers. "And we did nothing; just sat with our backs pressed to the fridge, Santana covering my ears, as Quinn shut down. Then I knew why she was crying so hard about a chocolate stain. Because it meant more than a little stain remover and another run through the washing machine. It meant being hit with the book she lived by while having psalms screamed at her until she was completely silent."

"Russell's a monster," you say softly, eyes fixed to the pine tree air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror.

"He is what he is," she replies. "But he broke his little girl and that broke something in Santana and since then, whenever Quinn cries Santana cries. Whenever Quinn's hurt, Santana's hurt. And I guess… Right now it looks like you're what's keeping them both together."

"Is this about the kiss?"

She pauses at a stop sign, waiting for a small child to cross. "It could be."

The child trips and pitches forward, nearly face-planting into the asphalt and your stomach lurches with him before he catches his balance and makes it safely to the other side. Brittany takes her foot off the brake.

"She needs to hurt you so you'll hate her as much as she hates herself for what happened to Quinn," she says in a soft voice, glancing at you before fixing her eyes on the road.

The words come at you like a fist and settle immediately as knives in your belly, twisting and turning until you swear you're about to vomit but all that comes out is, "What?"

"If Quinn's hurt, Santana's hurt," Brittany repeats.

"I got that."

She gives a slight shrug and pulls up to a red light. "But if Quinn's hurt, no matter what happened, it's Santana's fault. And now, because Quinn's hurt, you're hurt. So in Santana's mind, you need to hate her for what she let happen."

"But I don't." And she didn't _let_-

"So she has to hurt you until you do and she hates herself for it and doesn't even really know what's going on." Brittany eases on the gas again and very carefully speeds past a small yellow bus, honking her horn as a child in the window tells her to. "She does it to me too, Rachel. It took me years to figure it out. But she can't help it."

"Why?" you ask. She laughs. "Do I have to hate her for things to get better?"

Shaking her head, she frowns. "No. I tried that before and she just feels even worse. I can talk to her?"

You nod. "It's not even her fault, what happened to Quinn. If anyone's to blame, it's me. She was coming to see me, and…"

"And it's not your fault either," Brittany replies.

People keep saying it but it doesn't ease any of your guilt. Had she not left her house that night, she'd still be okay. She's broken because she wanted to come see you. You broke her. No matter what anyone says, you know it's your fault. You have to make it right.

"How'd you get to be so smart, Brittany?"

She snorts and puts a hand on your leg just above your knee, giving you a small tap. "I'm not smart. Not really. I know about people and I know about cats, but…" She shrugs. "Everyone else knows more than me."

"That's not true," you say, straightening up in your seat.

She considers this for a moment, both her hands now on the steering wheel, drumming out a song only she can hear. "Well maybe it's easier when everyone thinks you don't know anything."

Armour, you think. She protects herself by feigning naivety, like you keep everyone out by talking far too fast and loud for anyone to want to come close. She hides behind it like Santana hides behind her cheerleading uniform and a ferocious scowl.

"And maybe I'm a little dyslexic," she admits. "But Santana helps take the wrinkles out of confusing words."

"She'll be okay?" It didn't start as a question, but halfway through you need Brittany's confirmation and she gives you a firm nod before pulling up to Quinn's house.

"We'll all be fine."

(/)

Judy's arms assault you the moment you step into the house. She hugs you tightly, pressing her cheek to the top of your head, careful not to spill the drink in her hand. Her breath smells like gin and regret.

When she pulls away you notice the creases around her eyes are more prominent than the last time you were here – she's finally starting to look her age.

"Quinn's sleeping," Judy says softly, half-motioning up the stairs with her glass. "I can make you something to eat?"

Nodding, you follow her into the kitchen and take a seat on one of the shiny barstools as she rummages through the fridge. From your spot, you can see dishes piling up in the sink and dust bunnies collecting in the corners of the room. The light fixtures cower behind cobwebs that sway slightly from an invisible draft. Abandoned, her glass sits by the stove.

She straightens up and turns to face you, worry etched in her skin. "I'm not quite sure what vegans eat," she admits.

You shake your head in dismissal. "I'm not actually very hungry."

"Tea?" she asks with a faint smile on her lips.

"Tea sounds lovely."

With two steaming cups of something herbal in front of you, perched on a pair of black barstools, the two of you sit in an easy silence and watch the spirals of heat rise up and disappear into the air. After awhile, Judy speaks.

"Finn came by today."

Your hands ball up into fists before you can gain control over your body and a hard frown falls over your face. "Finn."

She nods, as equally perturbed as you.

"He mumbled something ridiculous about it being his fault for breaking up with you or just being an ass – I wasn't really paying attention – and said he needed to be Quinn's boyfriend again so he could take care of her." Judy laughs and brings her mug up to her lips, sipping carefully. "I didn't even try to intervene when Quinnie threw a card table at him."

You snort and quickly try to cover up the noise by coughing, but it doesn't matter. Judy's laughing again and you join her, wishing you could've seen Finn Hudson be taken down by Quinn – again.

"You'd think with a head that big he'd at least have some brains," she mutters into her cup.

"General consensus says he's walked into too many street signs to have retained any intelligence," you deadpan.

This time it's Judy who snorts. "He's an attractive kid but he really needs to work on his self-oriented perspectives."

"That he does," you say.

What you'd give to see Finn actually do something for someone else for once and not just for his own selfish reasons.

Jud y must feel the same way because she starts in on a longwinded rant about when Quinn used to date him and it would be amusing if he didn't make you so mad. He comes into Quinn's safe space and asserts himself into her life when he hasn't even batted an eye about her since he broke up with you.

"He's such an ass," you growl, to Judy's amusement.

"Nearly as bad as my ex-husband," she says offhandedly, caressing her mug of tea in a way that seems too intimate for the situation. "Well, soon-to-be ex. The papers still haven't gone through but as soon as they do…" She releases a soft breath of a smile and shakes her head. "I'll be free."

"I've heard some… some stories," you offer, not exactly sure how to approach this. On the one hand, you feel like this isn't your business. On the other, you feel just as attacked by Russell as the rest of this family.

She nods slowly and pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, sighing. "We went back and forth between fighting and forgetting. But it wasn't a happy marriage. I married to escape, you know. I wanted to leave my family behind and I ended up marrying a slightly funnier clone of my father."

"You didn't marry for love?" The idea seems absurd on your tongue.

"I think I was in love with the idea of it all," she murmurs. "And it was nice when it wasn't terrifying. He really did know how to make me laugh."

"He gave you two beautiful daughters," you suggest.

Judy's face lights up with pride and tenderness and she folds her hand over yours. "Those girls are my heartbeat. I would gladly throw myself in the line of fire again and again if it meant I could keep my angels."

"I'd do the same for Quinn," you say quietly, your voice raw with honestly.

"I know, sweetie. I know." She gives your hand a squeeze. "Sometimes I think about what would've happened had I not lost my Frannie. She married to escape us, just like I did. I can only hope she's happy. If I prayed…"

You nod, completely understanding.

"She has a daughter," Judy tells you, lowering her voice to the point of almost crying. "She didn't tell me but I found her Facebook profile and I saw the photos. She has a beautiful little girl. They called her Margaret."

"I think she's happy, then," you say earnestly.

Judy smiles faintly before bobbing her head in agreement. "I think so. She has a daughter of her own now…"

Maybe Quinn would've been happy had she kept her daughter, you think. Everything would be different but she'd wake up knowing someone else's life depended on her and she'd have to get out of bed. Maybe it wouldn't be happiness though; it could also drag her down past the point of coping.

"Quinn," Judy starts.

Without your consent, a hand waves the thought away and your mouth opens to speak. "Quinn needs to be a daughter a little longer before she can be a mother."

"Right; you're right. I know. Still I can't help think of how happy she looked when that baby was placed in her arms. And now…" Her shoulders come up in a half-hearted shrug that brings her cardigan up to her ears, falling down with a heavy sigh.

"I know," you whisper.

"Tell me it's not my fault," she asks with the most heartbreaking quivering smile. "Everything happens to Quinn and I can't… I never…"

This extends further out of your comfort zone than you'd ever intended to go, but you pull her into a hug, inhaling her comforting scent of faded lilacs, and tell her none of this has ever been her fault.

"It's not going to make a difference, placing blame," you say. "But there are so many people I could pin it on and you'll never be on that list. You love her."

"So do you, Rachel," she says into your collarbone.

You love her. You've been falling for so long and you've landed in love with her.

"I do."

(/)

Your papa picks you up in his station wagon and you've never before been so thankful to see the bumper full of ridiculous stickers boasting about his talented daughter. You have two fathers who love you and would move mountains for you. It doesn't feel like enough to just hug him when he shows up so you squeeze him tighter than the time you thought they'd forgotten you at ballet lessons.

"Papa," you mumble into his peppery warmth.

He strokes your hair with a calm ease and waits until you're ready to get in the car, not needing to ask any questions.

"I'm sorry," you tell him as you buckle your seatbelt.

He waves it away with a strong hand etched with years of hard work and tender touch.

"I haven't been running away," you try to explain. "I've been… people need me. A lot of people need me and I think I might really need them."

"I know, Papaya. It's okay." His voice washes over you, as soothing as it was when you were seven and struck with horrible nightmares that left you sobbing into your Sailor Moon sheets. "You do what you have to and we'll figure out what needs explaining once it's all over."

As soon as you're home, he runs you a hot bath and silently pours bubble bath solution into the water despite the fact he hasn't done this since you were twelve. His strong hands slip _Funny Girl_ into the VCR beside the tub and he leaves you with your favourite fluffy towel.

"Papa?" you say before he leaves.

He stops in the doorway and responds with a smile.

"I love you," you tell him quietly. He knows. He says it back and heads downstairs to find his husband who is probably full of questions but knows enough to let you be.

You fall asleep that night with the foreign feeling of peace beginning to wash over everything. Tucked in your bed, underneath a thick duvet, you let a smile slip onto your lips as you drift off into the first dream in ages that hasn't included images of Quinn's rotting corpse. It's starting to get better.

(/)

In the morning, there's a warm body occupying the other half of your bed. An arm is wrapped around your midsection and some hair tickles the back of your neck while hot breath rests on your skin. Your first thought is to tell Quinn about your nightmare where she went missing and came back a different person. Your second thought is to scream.

Somehow, your subconscious takes over and your scream turns into a whispered gasp, alerting the other person to your being awake. They murmur into the pillow before pushing up off the bed, speaking to you.

"Morning," says a raspy female voice.

You roll over to see Santana's sleepy face smiling down on you and you're about to shove her away when you realize she's only wearing a thin t-shirt that looks as if it belonged, at one time, to Puck. The silhouettes of naked ladies adorn a good chunk of the front of the shirt and the neck's ripped enough to show you she's most likely wearing nothing underneath.

"What the hell, Santana?"

Realization settles in the skin of her forehead and she smirks sheepishly, pulling your duvet up to her chest. "I have an explanation."

"I'd love to hear it," you say curtly.

She sits up fully and wraps the duvet around her like a cape, forming a cave for you to lie inside. It's almost like those games you wish you could've played with someone else as a child, except you're seventeen and it's four-thirty in the morning.

"Britt and I had a fight last night," she says softly, in a voice admitting weakness and apology. "She was mad at me and I said some things I regret and I knew I couldn't go home to an empty house or else I'd do something stupid, so."

"So you snuck into my place?" you say, not at all amused.

She shrugs, biting her lip like a small child. "Sort of. Except your dad let me in."

You make a mental note to talk to your parents about acceptable behaviour regarding house guests and sleeping patterns.

"We have a guest bedroom, you know. And several couches. And plenty of floor space." You mean to stay angry at her but the regret in her eyes forces you to drop the grimace.

"I just needed to hold someone," she says.

"Puck didn't make the cut?"

Santana rolls her eyes at this and you marvel at the hint of who she used to be seeping into this conversation. "Puck snores. It's usually Quinn that I go to, when B and I fight, but…"

You get it. She nods.

"Had I been thinking last night, I would've brought actual clothes. Hell, had I been thinking I wouldn't have fought with Brittany but I did and now she's refusing to speak to me because apparently – and I know it's true – I'm a huge bitch," she says with a duck of her head.

Grumbling, you glance at the clock and then back at Santana, wondering exactly how long her explanation would take if you asked her what happened. Deciding it can wait, you pat the mattress and tell her there's still an hour and a half until your alarm and you might as well get a little more sleep.

She grins like a kid at a carnival and buries under the duvet with you, her arms once again pulling you into a cocoon of warmth. With a shake of your head, you wish her sweet dreams and wonder when your life became so intimate.


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's note: Updates should be coming more frequently. This would've been up sooner had I not been dragged to my cottage for the long (rainy) weekend, but here it is regardless and I'm sorry for how much I dislike Finn. I'm also sorry for any mistakes in this chapter. I did read it through a couple times, but shit happens. :P Enjoy.**

**(/)**

Morning greets you with a myriad of birds outside your window and a tangle of black hair falling across your cheek. Santana sleeps in a peaceful state of stillness while you rise and shower and when you return, hair dripping rivulets down the back of your towel, she's moved to occupy the space you left behind. Her shut eyes and scowl-free face seem to hold no grief as she lays there; you contemplate pausing the day so she can remain in this silk-wrapped dream.

Your dad, a man of many silences and crossword puzzle answers, fills the doorway with a soft breath. He nods at the girl in your bed then glances back to you, mouth as straight as his mother wished he could be.

"Remember when I didn't have friends?" you whisper, a hand fondling the bottom of the towel wrapped around your clean body.

He presses his lips into a solemn response and this is how it's always been, silent from his end and Papa's end – completely up to you to fill the room with sound. Sometimes when you were little and your voice still wasn't enough to blur the sharp sting of social seclusion, you'd wish desperately that you could be as quiet as your fathers. Time seemed to be something they owned. You'd always coveted their control over such things as free as minutes and wind and hope.

"I never dreamt it would be like this," you confess.

He tilts his head from one side to another then opens his mouth to speak in a voice riddled with lifetimes of knowledge. "Most people are surrounded by friends and never find people like this, Rachel. Few creatures mate for life but grief has a way of wrapping lives together tighter than ribbons of steel."

"But Quinn lived through it," you say, although speaking the words causes questions to echo around in your mind. Did she? Or did part of her stay rooted to the sidewalk when her body was snatched away in the night?

He considers this briefly before continuing down the hall to wake his husband. Soon they'll have breakfast on the table and you'll come bouncing down the stairs with as much forced cheer as you can muster just so the day doesn't seem as suffocating as it feels.

"I'd like to see that towel on my bedroom floor," Santana says groggily, sitting up in your bed. She forces a smirk onto her face to show you she's kidding but you see the fear slip through the veil over her dark eyes as she remembers the previous night.

"My type's a little blonder and taller, but nice try," you say with an impish grin and a quirk of your eyebrows.

She snaps her fingers together and shakes her head. "Darn. Coach Sylvester's one lucky woman."

She laughs as if tears threaten to climb over the lump in her throat and choke her mercilessly, shoulders shaking so hard you have to check that she's smiling to make sure she's not collapsing in on herself. You muster up a dry chuckle to show her you appreciate her quip but it falls on deaf ears as her laughter turns to a startling groan.

"Mondays make me feel the same way," you say wryly.

Santana heaves her body out of bed, tugging on Puck's old shirt so it falls halfway down her bronzed thighs. The girl has skin the colour of a third-place trophy but it's worse than second best so you equate her skin to a sunset caught in the ocean's folds and it feels a little better in your head.

"Mondays," she mutters, "are the least of my problems."

"Brittany?" you guess.

She nods.

"Do you want to shower first? I'll find something for you to wear and then you can tell me why you had a fight with our peacekeeper." You'd rather hear it now, but she'll probably be more at ease after stripping out of last night's constraints and washing away the words she'd love to take back.

"Thanks, Rachel," she says with a shy smile.

It's so odd to be the first to rise, standing in front of her with your hair washed and day already started. You're so used to her dragging you out of bed and smacking some dignity into you before forcing you to function like a basic human being. For once, you have the upper hand. It tastes even bitterer than you'd previously imagined.

(/)

Parked firmly on a wooden chair at the kitchen table, facing a plate of scrambled tofu and dry toast, you follow the silent conversation between your fathers and wait for Santana to finish getting dressed.

Papa sighs and taps his pen against the edge of his coffee mug, staring at the morning crossword with as much contempt as a small Jewish man can muster. His thick eyebrows knot together and you wonder if he knows he immediately glances to his husband for help, dark eyes asking for the answer to clue no. 42.

Dad carefully removes the pen from Papa's hand and fills in the squares with his blocky letters, glancing once more at the clue before nodding his head in affirmation. Papa regards him with a tender love you hope never fades and the two sip their coffee in unison.

"It's a warm one today," Papa says casually, eyeing the weather report at the top of the paper. "We could use a little sunshine, I think."

You mumble a weak response and stare at your plate, asking yourself how any of this ever looked appetizing before your world was tossed upside down. Beige and brown, you think. Breakfast should be colourful.

Santana stumbles into the room wearing one of your only pairs of jeans and a white tank top you'd forgotten you owned. She looks good, if not a little gay. Her dark hair is pushed back with a white headband and she's scrubbed off all her makeup, revealing both the ageing lines around her eyes and the youthful glow she so desperately tries to cover up.

At seventeen, she seems like one of those winky-dinks: from a certain angle she looks twelve and from another you'd swear she's already thirty.

"I'm hungover," she announces as she falls into the seat next to you. "Your vegan food looks worse than I feel."

"You were drinking last night?" you ask, wondering why you hadn't smelled alcohol on her when she'd crawled into your bed.

She meets your gaze with a twisted smile before helping herself to your cup of tea. "You can get drunk off of anger too, Berry."

"You were definitely angry last night," Papa says quietly.

Santana nods and wrinkles her nose at your tea. "Jasmine? If you want swamp water, green tea's a much better choice."

To be honest, you hadn't even noticed what's in your cup because you were too busy avoiding it. But if she wants to complain she can make her own goddamn cup of tea. She's not a cripple, no matter how much she argues her emotional hangover.

Your fathers exchange a glance, holding a conversation in mere seconds before rising simultaneously and taking their dishes to the sink to be washed later. The paper's folded back to its original state and the table wiped clean of any lingering crumbs.

"School today?" Papa asks, neither condemning your previous absences nor pressuring you into attending.

Santana considers this from behind the mug of tea, stretching her neck. "Yeah, I think so. It's about time we grace those losers with our beauty. The whole place has probably gone to shit since we've been away."

Your fathers nod and each gather their briefcases from the counter, sensing your need to speak to Santana without them. Papa plants a kiss on your forehead then Santana's, wishing you both good luck for the upcoming day and Dad tells you to call if it gets bad – either of you – before they head out the front door and drive off to work.

"Your dads," Santana says into the quiet room, "are awesome."

It takes a moment for you to swallow the lump of dry toast in your throat before you can respond. "You were angry last night."

With that, her attention is back on the night before and the tea in her hands goes cold as she swiftly sets it on the table. You watch the liquid hum with movement before settling into the cup as Santana settles into the chair, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her top teeth on the fabric of her jeans.

"We fought," she says, easing into a painful smile. "She never gets angry but she's been so mad at me lately, for everything. And I swear I get it from my mom but I can never seem to back away when I know I'm about to say something stupid."

Her fingers trace the rim of the mug, again and again until they're a slowly dizzying blur.

"I'm not in love with you," she says.

You pretend to stab your heart with the end of your fork. "But we had something special, Santana!"

She eyes you with caution before catching onto your joke and her laughter falls hard to the table like broken bits of porcelain.

"Brittany asked me if I was," she explains quietly.

"She did?"

Santana drops her forehead to her knees and wraps her arms around herself, tight enough for her knuckles to whiten. "The kiss… did you know I'm an idiot? I don't think about things before I do them. Or I think too much about things, to the point where every word sounds foreign in my head and I'm even further away from knowing what's right."

"Brittany's mad about the kiss?" you ask, thinking back to the conversation you shared with her in the car. She didn't seem mad then; she had answers for all your questions, including the ones you failed to ask.

"No. She's mad because I don't listen and I'm defensive and I always say the wrong thing." Her arms tighten then loosen completely, dropping to her sides. When her head comes up, you see the little girl she never truly had a chance to be.

"You're about as vague as Mr. Schue's whiteboard lessons," you tell her.

She smiles for a second and it twists into something gruesome. "I told her to stay the fuck out of my life and stop fucking psychoanalyzing me every chance she had. I just kept yelling and she was crying and it wasn't until I was inches from her face did I realize I was about to hit her."

You stop halfway through inhaling, making a noise like a strangled cat.

"I was about to hit _my girlfriend_," she says, rubbing her eyes with the palms of her hands. "So I bolted and she found me in her old treehouse, sobbing like an asshole. She tried to tell me it was okay and I just… I'm turning into my mother."

The confession barrels into the pit of your stomach and you grab her hands, squeezing them tighter than you probably should, pulling her close. "Santana, listen to me. You will never be your mother. It's _impossible_. There is not a single thing in that heart of yours that comes before Brittany and I doubt it can ever change."

"That's not it, Rachel," she mumbles.

"What's not it?" you ask, releasing your grasp.

She sinks back into her chair and sighs deeply. "She kept saying it was okay and I said… I said, _I knew you were stupid but this takes the cake_ and she…" A hiccup involuntarily escapes her lips. "She slapped me and I told her to rot in hell before I even knew I was speaking."

You don't know what to say to this so you avert your eyes to the scrambled tofu that remains untouched on your plate.

"So she kicked me out of her treehouse and I ran here," Santana admits with a voice that hints at tears.

"Every couple has fights," you offer, trying to piece together the night from the bits she's told you.

Eyes wet, she scoffs at you. "We fight about who gets the last orgasm of the night or whose turn it is to clean the cat litter but I've _never_ called her stupid. She's not stupid. You know she's probably borderline genius? I swear the girl reads people better than any psychologist I've ever been to. And now she hates me."

"She doesn't hate you, Santana," you say.

"She should. _I_ hate me," she mutters. "God, I hate myself so much."

Santana releases the tears she's been struggling to hold in and they streak her face with malice, drawing jagged lines where you imagine, if she were a China doll, she'd shatter. Her sobs shake her upper body while she squeezes herself into a tiny ball as if she's hoping to disappear. You rise and fold her up in a hug.

"You've got to forgive yourself," you tell her, lips pressed into her hair. "Let go of all the blame and forgive yourself."

"I can't," she whimpers.

Your hands find their way into hers and you lace your fingers together, trying your best to give her all the strength you possess. "Yes you can, Santana. If Brittany can forgive you, and she will, then you can forgive yourself."

She shakes her head but you pull her closer into your chest, stifling the movement. Her cheek rests hard on your collarbone and she digs her nails into your palms, no doubt leaving red crescents in the skin, as she weeps out all the pain she's been holding in for so long. _It's okay_, you want to tell her, but you can't lie.

"We should get to school," she says suddenly, pushing you off her and standing. Her hands swipe at her face and she stumbles into the table twice before figuring out how to walk away, but her back stiffens and her shell hardens while you watch her slip into her frigid façade.

It's really not okay but you can't find the words to say otherwise.

(/)

All eyes are fixed on you as you enter first period math class with Santana and the two of you fill seats at the back of the room, away from Brittany. She drops her head and fiddles with her pen. If Santana notices the hurt in her girlfriend's eyes, she doesn't say anything.

"Nice to see you back," the teacher says softly, smiling carefully at Santana and you.

Most of the students turn their attention to the front where the teacher starts her lesson but a note falls into your lap and you glance up to see Tina frowning sympathetically at you. The note's folded like a flower.

_**If you need anything, please let me know. I want to help. -T**_

Santana tugs the note from your grasp and reads it silently; eyeing you then Tina once she's finished. She seems surprised at first by the kindness but her eyebrows relax into a neutral frown and she nods at Tina, thanking her without drawing any attention towards them.

The lesson ploughs through chapter 12 trig and students frantically try to keep up with what's being written on the board. You spend the period trying to fold the note back into a flower.

(/)

If Mr. Schuester ends up teaching you anything this year, it'll be eyebrow acrobatics. His shoot up the moment you walk into his classroom and they do some sort of tango, contorting from surprise to concern in mere seconds. To his credit, he doesn't drop the textbook he's cradling like the baby he never had.

Brittany comes up behind you and tugs you to a table, forcing you to sit next to her with a hand on the small of your back. She waits for Mr. Schue to take his focus off of you before she slaps you across the face.

"Ow!" you cry out, bringing a hand to your stinging cheek.

"I know," she says. "But do you hate me?"

"Brittany, I could never hate you. But why-"

She interrupts you by covering your mouth and frowning. "What if I slapped you harder? Would you hate me then?"

As she draws back her arm, you grab it and stare at her in shock. "No! Never! Why are you slapping me?"

From the corner of your vision, you see Mr. Schuester cautiously watching this possible girl fight. In your experience, he likes to wait until these things blow up before intervening. You certainly hope it's not a fetish.

"If I was in love with you and hit you would it be different?" Her eyes are big and a darker blue than usual, holding too much pain and regret for one person.

"Oh," you say, understanding where it's all coming from. "Britt, Santana doesn't hate you. She thinks _you_ hate _her_."

"But I don't," she says quietly.

"You kicked her out after she said all…" You let the sentence trail off, not exactly wanting to vocalize what went down the night before.

"She's an idiot," Brittany says, but the kindness in her eyes says otherwise. "Is she mad at me for hitting her?"

Mr. Schuester diverts his attention to a student whose backpack explodes in the doorway and you take some twisted pleasure from watching all those papers fly into the air. Other people's lives fall apart too. Maybe not to the same extent, but you recall a time when simply dropping your pencil filled you with shame and embarrassment.

"She's mad at herself for letting it get to that point," you tell her.

"I wanted to take it all back the moment she left," she mumbles, hands scrunching up the bottom of her Cheerios skirt.

"You should talk to her, because I'm pretty sure she blames herself for everything." You can still feel the ghost of Santana's shaking form in your arms.

"I'm the one who started the fight," Brittany murmurs. "I _am_ stupid sometimes."

"Brittany," you start.

She shakes her head and exhales loudly, accidentally sending her pen rolling off the edge of her desk. She doesn't make a move to get it and you let it sit there, watching her hands drum an angry beat onto her knees.

"I just didn't want her to blame herself anymore," she says, tapping her thumbs. "And look where we ended up."

(/)

It has not been a good morning. But by the same measurement, it hasn't been a bad morning either so you find it in you to drag yourself to glee club at lunch with Brittany at your elbow and while the familiar room holds some comfort, the people inside it leave you feeling chilled.

Santana's glare hits you first. She's upset that you're with Brittany – that you're taking sides in whatever this fight's become– even though you've shared second period with Brittany since the start of the year and usually ended up walking in with her regardless of planning.

You can deal with that and you do, taking a seat in the empty front row, letting Brittany and Santana battle it out for whoever gets you right now. Santana doesn't budge from the piano bench however and Brittany's frozen in the doorway.

You will not get involved.

Finn's vicious look burns into the side of your head from where he's planted at the drums, as angry as he was when you told him Quinn's baby wasn't his. It isn't your fault this time though so you'll wait until you're bored to deal with him.

As it is, you're alone until Puck falls into the chair next to you. His large hand cups your shoulder and he gives it a squeeze, letting you know he's there.

"Welcome back," he says quietly.

Finn kicks over the drum set, sending a cymbal flying halfway across the room, and funnily enough you're not feeling very welcome.

"What the hell, man!" Puck rises immediately; fists balled tightly and back as prickled as a spitting cat.

Mike and Sam are up as well, bracing themselves in case of a fight, but mostly to make sure everyone's okay. Artie wheels away from the scene, back into a corner. Finn glares at you.

"It's _her_ fault," he spits, eyeing you with the same contempt he once had for Puck. "Quinn's screwed up and it's _Rachel's_ fault."

Your chest tightens and cheeks prickle, growing hot as everyone turns to look at you. From the doorway, Brittany shakes her head. Her lips are pressed together and she has her nails dug into the doorframe, keeping herself as far away as possible from the broken drum kit.

"This is not Rachel's fault," Puck growls. He advances closer, scarily ready to hit someone. To hit Finn.

Finn either doesn't seem to notice the tension in the room or feeds on it, assuming everyone else shares his opinion. "Think about it. Quinn was fine until Rachel started her stupid little plan to befriend her and suddenly Quinn's all quiet and empty and then she goes missing? If Rachel hadn't forced her to let her guard down-"

"Back away now, Hudson," Santana warns with a snarl, perched for flight from the piano bench.

"Stay out of this, Santana! You don't know anything," he retorts.

She bristles and snaps her scowling eyes to him. "_Excuse_ me? I don't know anything?"

"No," he replies. "You call yourself Quinn's best friend but you haven't done shit for her. I bet you didn't even know she thinks she's _in love_ with Rachel."

Finn waits for the room to fall apart (you do too), gaze flicking from one person to the next trying to gage a reaction. Except for Sam who tilts his head to the side, everyone remains as still as they were a minute ago.

You exhale.

"Fucking dick," Santana mutters, obviously trying to calm herself.

"Dude, it's none of your business who Quinn loves," Puck says, trying to shift the focus. So far in his life Finn hasn't hit a girl, but Santana's as vicious as a rattlesnake and Puck's told you a few times he's afraid it'll come back to bite her.

"It is when _I'm_ in love with her," Finn says. "It is when she's supposed to be my girlfriend and suddenly she's going on about how she loves Rachel – a girl – and throwing card tables at me!"

You try and fail to suppress a snicker.

"Think this is funny, Rachel? Think it's so hilarious that your plan to get back at your ex-boyfriend is actually working? Oh wow, look at that! I broke up with you so you had to go and brainwash the only girl I've truly ever loved!" Finn's voice is high and pinched, dripping with agitation.

"He did not-" Mercedes starts. Tina puts a hand on her arm and shushes her.

Though you desperately want to, you won't get up and punch the crap out of him. He's not worth it. He's not worth it. He's _not_ worth it. You say it like a mantra in your head but his voice is louder, continuing.

"Quinn doesn't even like girls, but maybe that's why she likes you because you have like no boobs and she can boss you around," he says, seething. "She still hates you inside and she's just going to drop you once she realizes how she feels for me. I don't want you getting hurt, Rachel."

It's not worth it. "She never hated me."

From the corner of your eye, you see Santana stand and quietly make her way to behind Finn, who's slowly advancing towards you. Puck watches this carefully, backing up into Mike and Sam who are just as much aware of what's happening.

"She's hated you from the first day she saw you," Finn tells you.

A laugh escapes your lips and you don't even try to cover it up, which, in retrospect, is a bad idea. Finn launches towards you and if you thought he'd never hit a girl, suddenly his arm is coming towards your head and your entire body cowers in fear.

"Shut your dick-sucking mouth, fucktard!" Santana barrels at him, taking him down into a row of chairs and pounding her fists into any part of him she can reach.

He struggles to throw her off but she clings to him and whacks him over and over, ignoring the tears that come from nowhere. When it looks like she might actually do some permanent damage, Sam lifts her off and Puck and Mike hold Finn down.

Brittany and Tina are at your side in seconds, both pulling you into the warmest hug you've ever felt and calming you to a point where you can breathe again.

"I'm gonna fucking kill you, Lopez!" Finn shouts from the floor, trying to push off the strong arms that hold him down.

She scoffs from across the room where Sam has her thrown over his shoulder.

"You've never had a chance with Quinn," she tells him, twisting to sneer at him. "She's been in love with Rachel since freshman year."

You except some sort of feedback from the group but they all seem to take it in stride, nodding along as if they've known it from the start. Maybe they have, given how Tina smiles at you.

Now or never, you think. "She's my girlfriend," you tell them, eyes on Brittany's hand that holds yours so delicately.

Mercedes lets out a breath. "Finally."

Finn is the only one who seems bothered by this but he's still pinned to the floor and can't move, so he settles for opening and closing his mouth like a fish.

"They're in love and getting it on," Puck clarifies for him, getting some sick pleasure from the purpling colour of Finn's face.

"That doesn't make any sense!" Finn finally growls.

"Actually," Artie says from the corner, "it makes a lot of sense. I mean, we all saw it from the moment it started."

"The only reason we didn't tell you was because you'd freak out and make it all about yourself," Mercedes continues, glaring at Finn.

If you'd ever doubted the love in this club, today's proven to you that they really do care about you and honestly do have your back. This is a family. Finn may be the drunk uncle who causes a scene every once in awhile, but he's still a part of it and once this has blown over, they'll have his back as well.

"It's not Rachel's fault that Quinn's broken," Brittany says quietly, staring at the floor. When she lifts her eyes, her voice rises as well. "If anything, Rachel's the only one making her better."


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's note: Regretfully, I will not be continuing this story. There's just too much clutter in it for me to be able to continue writing and I feel horrible about it, but it's been coming for awhile. I did write about half of chapter 12 ages ago, so I thought I'd post it as is to at least give some minute closure. I may one day choose to rewrite the entire thing; as of right now, it's no longer an open project. **

**I'm sorry to everyone who was looking for it to be fleshed out and I would just like to give everyone an immense thank-you for investing your time and interest in this story over the past however many months it's been. Your support has meant the world to me, and I'm so sorry to let you down. **

**Finally, I may no longer be watching the show, but I do have a handful of other stories I've been working on that will start to appear on this site in the next few months - so if you enjoyed Santana and Rachel being miserable together, you may find something new in a similar vein. **

**Again, thank-you for all the support and kind words. If you have any questions or complaints (by all means feel free to complain; Lord knows I would), you can find me at jessajohanssn/tumblr. **

**You've all been wonderful.**

/

Finn comes to see you after school with his tail tucked between his legs and a sullen expression splashed across his face. Though you have to crane your neck to see, his eyes tell you how sorry he truly is.

You bring him out to the lawn – neutral ground – and he sits next to you in the grass, folding his legs under him like a tired puppy. His fingers brush through the blades so soft and delicate it reminds you exactly why you once loved him and for a moment, very briefly, you want to kiss him and tell him it's all a dream so he doesn't have to hurt anymore.

"You love her," he says quietly.

For opening lines, it may be one of his best.

"I do."

There once existed a time where you thought for sure you'd be saying those exact words while wearing a white dress and gazing up at his adoring face as birds flitted about in your chest and your head filled with the married days yet to come.

His face brings an ache under your ribcage as he opens his mouth to speak again. "Did you love me?"

"I did, Finn. As much as I could, I did." He's satisfied with your response but you need more, so you continue, and it's painful for both of you. "But not like this. Not like I love Quinn."

He's as silent as you've ever seen him before only he doesn't seem confused, just mildly disappointed and a little relieved.

"I thought I'd be angry," he says. "I mean I was, but… but I'm not. It's weird. Going to see her the other day… Do you still love her, even now?"

"I do," you say again.

This time it's Quinn at the altar and she says it first but it falls from your lips so freely you easily cut the cord and the parachute blows away through the stained glass windows. You don't need a safety net to love her.

"I don't," he replies, his voice as regretful as his eyes. "I wish I did. She needs a rock, and… You know. I wish I could be it."

He doesn't apologize for earlier and you don't need him to. Instead the two of you sit in the grass with your hands splayed out through the blades like it's winter and you're both kids in snowsuits and it's safe to make angels. He draws a pair of wings with his thumb and you make a wish, on this moment, because this is more real than a fallen eyelash or a puff of dandelion seeds.

You wish for Quinn.

Finn gives you a nod as if he knows just that.

(/)

Days pass like molasses. They grab hold of your arms as you trudge your way through and pull you back – tugging like the little boy in kindergarten whose hands were always at your braids – while you slap away the constraints and carry on forward. Time doesn't ask you, anymore, if you'd like a break. You don't get to choose which days are okay.

Each afternoon you find yourself in Quinn's kitchen, steeping a tea bag in boiling water as Judy shares snippets of Quinn's childhood and you both keep your eyes fixed on the doorway, praying Quinn might chance you with an appearance.

She doesn't leave her room much, as of late. Sometimes the door opens and she tosses another article of clothing into the growing pile in the hall but her strengthening presence is scarce to the rest of the house.

The only upside – that you can see – to this entire mess is the strange alliance with Judy Fabray.

It may have started when she didn't tell on you and Quinn, all those months ago in the hot tub, when Russell knowing seemed like the worst outcome in the world. Now it carries on in this kitchen; her hands wrapped tight around a mug; your focus wrapped around her words.

This is how you know you love Quinn – each time you see a bit of her in her mother, your heart trips over itself like a puppy whose paws are too big.

Others stop by, sometimes: Puck brings small trinkets that seemingly mean nothing but must mean something, as Quinn accepts them silently and ducks back into her room; Santana throws herself into housework, tapping her knuckles against Quinn's door as if sending a secret message through the wood; Mercedes sits herself outside Quinn's room and speaks softly about her little brothers in a voice only Quinn has ever heard; Finn leaves handmade cards. And Pillow Pets – Finn leaves several smiling Pillow Pets at the bottom of the stairs, in case Quinn ever decides to come out.

Judy cries each time the door closes shut behind another guest.

You start singing – bum planted halfway up the staircase – for both Quinn and Judy. When you hear both trying to hide their sniffles, it's always time to go. Fabray women need space as infants need swaddling.

(/)

You've fallen asleep on the stairs when a bedroom door creaks open. Brushing the imprint of carpet fibres from your face, you sit up with a start – nearly falling down the rest of the flight as Quinn's bare feet meet you at eye level.

She peers down at you from over the banister; gaze fixed and unwavering; fingers tapping the melody of the song that put you to sleep. With her hair clipped back into a messy braid she looks both worn and renewed – as if maybe her metamorphosis just put her right back at the start.

From here, you can see the dark scars on her knees. From here, her skin screams a story. It's only as your eyes adjust to the marks do you realize you're ready to listen.

Quinn moves to sit on the same step as you and though her hand rests an inch away from yours, she's close. Her knee grazes your own and neither of you flinch. It's like this that she starts from the beginning.

"I love you, Rachel. I've loved you since the first time we ever spoke."

(/)

The story has no end. If she sees one in sight, she doesn't let on – but both of you know this will hold her tight for the rest of her life. Still, she murmurs it as if it's no longer the hands wrapped around her neck and when she breathes, you can only see her figure heaving; not the heavy shadow that used to push her air out in quick gasps.

"I still see him every time I close my eyes," she says softly. "And again when I open them."

You know you'll never know, but you tell her, "I know."

She nods.

(/)

Her fingernails cut half moons in her palms exactly like Jesus when they nailed him to the cross and you wonder if she feels like a butterfly pinned to cork; stuck there next to dozens of others like her, with a ghost and a label in tiny Latin cursive.

She certainly seems as if she's trapped behind glass.

She certainly seems as if her wings were stripped from her soul.

Her voice drips out like lava.

(/)

"Do you know that moment before you reach the surface, after diving deep into the pool? He's holding my head down."

When she speaks of drowning, you know exactly what she means.

(/)

The sun that peeks through the window makes its way across the carpet at the bottom of the stairs and by the time her hand drifts onto your leg, it's dark in the house. Somehow, it's easier this way.

Quinn isn't talking in circles – more like diamonds that cut sharp through both of you. She bleeds relief.

"They did a rape kit," she tells you, fingertips pressing patterns into your thigh. "They didn't have to. He – he didn't. But they did it anyway, because they think it's the worst that can happen." She exhales. "Worse can happen."

Though she pauses, you know she doesn't need you to say anything and it strikes you as mildly ironic that last year, you were known as the girl that talked too much – yet as of late you can barely bring yourself to open your mouth. It's not the kind of silence that makes anyone happy.

Her hand tenses on your skin. "He said if I tried to escape, he'd kill you. He said he'd kill you. I didn't move from that mat for three days."

"What- what made you?" you ask tentatively.

She turns to face you and for the first time since she disappeared, she looks you in the eye and it's _her_. It's Quinn.

"I thought… It was selfish. I couldn't die without seeing you one last time."

(/)

He kept her in a storage unit. When she says this, your stomach flips over in the most sickening way. He caged her like she was nothing more than junk from someone's attic – you wish for nothing more than Dexter to be real so that piece of shit can suffer through all the pain he's caused.

"Jail would be too good for his worthless ass," you mutter through clenched teeth, trying your hardest to remain calm. It hurts. "But when they catch that shithead-"

"No," she breathes. "I don't want them to catch him."

"Why?"

She traces a heart on your knee and the silence explains nothing.

(/)

It's late when you go home. When you get there, Santana sits on your doorstep, hands leaving marks on her cheeks from resting her face in her palms.

"She's talking," you tell her as you unlock the front door.

Only Santana's car sits in the driveway and you should be used to your dads not being around as much as normal parents, but you don't want to be responsible for anything tonight. You need them to hold you and dim the lights and make everything stop hurting. The house is quiet. Santana follows you inside.

"Judy called me," she says, leading you to the kitchen. As if it's her routine, she fills the kettle and takes out two mugs – the ones your dads bought at the zoo, years ago. "She heard Quinn… heard everything. I don't ever want to hear someone cry that hard again. I thought for sure her lungs were going to come through her nose or something. So how are you still standing, after listening to everything?"

You shake your head. "I feel like I'm about to throw up."

"Yeah," she replies, leaning into the counter.

"Did Judy-"

Santana's eyes darken. "No. I don't want to know. I just want her to be okay."

"She won't be," you say, bile rising in your throat.

"I know."


End file.
